


Starstuff

by cassieoh_draws (cassieoh), the_moonmoth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Love Confessions, Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astrophysics, Birth of Christ, But Borrowing A Lot From the Book, Canon - TV, Elizabethan England, Extended Metaphors, F/F, F/M, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), It's Just Ineffable OK?, Lots and lots of sex, M/M, Masturbation, Medieval England, Mild Blood, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Robin Hood Myth, Romance, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Sex, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Tenderness, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Author Has Finally Found A Use For Her Astrophysics Degree, Trans Character, Various Pronouns and Plumbing, Victorian England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: Aziraphale looked up, stunned, into Crawly’s wide yellow eyes, the red waterfall of his hair, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and saw every impossible thing he was feeling reflected back at him. And there were many things to think in that moment, many strange and wonderful and fearful things, but what Aziraphale would remember later was the kinship of it, the no-longer-alone-ness of it, and how it made his eyes burn and his chest squeeze and his heart sing.The life cycle of a love affair; the life cycle of a star. For beings older than the Universe itself, they might not be so different.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 380
Kudos: 524
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Front Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Written by the_moonmoth / [@themoonmothwrites](https://themoonmothwrites.tumblr.com/) and illustrated by cassieoh / [@cassieoh](https://cassieoh.tumblr.com/) for the 2019 [Good Omens Big Bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Notes**

Google Docs says I opened the file for chapter 1 on July 28th 2019. It's now Feb 2nd 2020. Friends: holy crap. Those of you who follow me on Tumblr know that writing this fic has been a trial at times, but I am so incredibly proud of the end result (and of Cassie's art, too, wow).

My personal life was a complete roller-coaster while I was writing this, and so I drew on a lot of friends for support. So much gratitude to [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur) for her help with 17th century clothing, and [likeasouffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeasouffle/pseuds/likeasouffle) for their generosity in helping me keep my foot out of my ass while writing a trans OC for the first time. [Singasongrightnow](https://singasongrightnow.tumblr.com/) went above and beyond in providing me with some much needed and very in-depth feedback as I finished each chapter. [Mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly) has been an incredible force for my continuing momentum with her tireless cheer-leading and beta-ing. And [Ladiama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladiama/pseuds/Ladiama) is just the most thorough, generous, ass-whipping beta a writer could wish for, who has improved this story in a hundred ways big and small that add up to something far better than I could've ever achieved by myself <3

For my artist, I was paired with [cassieoh,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh) and honestly this might be one of the best things that's ever come out of my time in fandom. Cassie is not only insanely talented and ridiculously dedicated, she is an absolute joy to collaborate with and a genuinely wonderful person. She has done so much work behind the scenes I can't even begin to detail it, but aside from going back and forth with me repeatedly on the art to make sure it was perfect (spoiler: it is perfect) she's also taken the brunt of my wibbling, complaining, angsting, and general authorial need for hand-holding, and guys, she's done it with style. Seeing whatever new thing she was working on every week was so incredibly motivating when I was in the pits, I can't even. I'm so excited to finally get to show off the literal mountains of gorgeous art she's produced.

Finally, many, many thanks to the organisers of the bang. What an incredible thing those guys have done, and not only that, but without the structure and impetus they provided I would never have finished this fic <3

Any remaining errors, inaccuracies or problematic content are my own.

**Artist's Notes**

*softly but with feeling* Y'all, I'm so freaking excited for you to get to see this! I'm still in shock over getting to work with moony on this project and I really can't say enough how grateful I am for all the feedback and nudging and generally making my art so, so much better than it would have been without either her wonderful story as inspiration or her patience with my ridiculously slow pace (also! gosh, I'm so grateful for literally every kind word and bit of cheering, it's genuinely meant the world <3). I'm ecstatic you all get to read her words and bask in them the way I have for the last few months, because this is without a doubt one of the best crafted pieces of writing I've ever had the pleasure to read. 

Also, I have to thank the folks over at the *ahem* monsterfuckers discord, y'all've been such a wonderful support system and I'm so grateful I was curious enough to accept that invite haha (and she'll never see this because _lord no_ , but my momma gave me a bunch of pointers and feedback on the pieces and her first response to the chapter 1 art was 'oh, that's what people mean when they say 'thicc', right?' so really, she's a gift). Finally, I gotta thank my girlfriend for being so willing to both see the same pieces a bunch of times and also be excited every time; seriously, you're the best <3\. 

Read on...


	2. 1 - Irreversible Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The universe puts us into places where we can learn. They are never easy places, but they are right. Wherever we are is the right place and the right time. The pain that sometimes comes is part of the process of constantly being born. [...] The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up this station, and the nebula outside; that burn inside the stars themselves. We are starstuff. We are the universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out. And as we have both learned, sometimes the universe requires a change of perspective.”  
>  **\-- J. Michael Straczynski, D. C. Fontana, Babylon 5**

**Starstuff**

_**~Interlude~** _

_Tell me about the stars, Crowley. (You are my safe place to ask questions, Crowley. I have so many of them). How were they made? How do they live? (Surely there is worship in understanding God’s marvels? After all, the beauty of a good book isn’t just in the pleasure to the eyes, the pretty arrangement of words on the page. The pleasure is in the way the soul gazes into the mirror and comes to know itself better. Let me know the heavens better. Let me know you better.)_

I’ll tell you, angel. God created the universe in heat and light, and then She created the angels to weave it. We took the light and moulded it in our hands, pressed it into protons and neutrons, tiny buzzing electrons, and then we pressed those together, too. She called them hydrogen atoms and we gathered them up in our arms into great luminous clouds. Then comes the neat bit, angel, the real trick. The Almighty looked at the way the bits of the atoms stuck together, and said, ‘like that, but for big things,’ and She called it gravity.

_But how does gravity make a star?_

It’s like a hill, you see. Or more like a valley. You put the cloud at the top and gradually, it’ll all fall down.

_(Apples fall. Angels, too. Does a fall always end in fire?)_

Those atoms’ll get closer together, it all starts to get hot. And you know, it’s still just a cloud at that point, swirling around in space and all that, but eventually, it gets dense enough that its own mass takes over, and it starts to collapse in on itself. It starts to collapse, right, and you can’t stop it. After that point, the star is going to get born come what may. It’s inevitable.

**Chapter 1: Irreversible Collapse**

**4004 B.C.**

Aziraphale sighed as he walked beneath the trees of Eden. The ground was springy and occasionally squelchy beneath his bare feet. The sensation was quite extraordinary, but every time he looked up with the idea of sharing his delight with someone, he remembered watching Eve and Adam walking into the desert last week, and his delight dimmed. The other angels who had dwelt here and guarded the gates had been recalled not long after the first rain had ended. Only Aziraphale, now on permanent assignment, remained. (He couldn’t really understand why he of all of them had been given such an important posting after, as he saw it, narrowly avoiding a smiting from God Herself for giving away his sword. But as always, he thought it best not to question.)

So here he was, awaiting further instruction, absolutely alone for the first time in his existence, and feeling… was there a word yet for a little less than joyful? He loved it here, truly, but he couldn’t help the idea that it would be even better to have someone to share in the marvel of Her creation.

Even… even a glimpse of Crawly wouldn’t go amiss at this point.

It had been just about one full week since Crawly had made his presence known up on the Eastern wall, and while Aziraphale was still getting to grips with this whole ‘time’ business, that surely wasn’t as long a period as it felt just now. Eve and Adam had been in the garden for several months before their expulsion, after all. But then, before, Aziraphale had had both humans and other angels to talk to. Now, it was just him, and the birds, and the bees. And Crawly.

His serpentine opposite number popped up every now and again, as sudden and unannounced as the first time on the wall, and equally as baffling.

_“Hey, angel, look at this.” He was holding up a bunch of fruit, a collection of small globes all tumbling down from one stalk, a deep, enticing red. “Found them growing on a vine up the South wall. Want a taste?”_

Aziraphale had been warned that the fallen angels -- _demons,_ as they were being called now -- were base, treacherous creatures, out to ensnare souls and prepared to use a multitude of wiles to manage it. But Crawly mostly just wanted to chat, and show Aziraphale whatever new fruit he had discovered.

_“Have you tried these yet? The humans call them pears, there’s a whole tree of them over on the other side of the river. Walk with me, I’ll show you.”_

And since Aziraphale had been sampling the human food since the humans themselves had first turned to their angelic protectors and offered them a bite of their meal, he didn’t feel that really counted as a temptation.

_“It’s called meat,” Eve said. “When we hold it over this fire thing you gave us, it changes colour and becomes kind of juicy.” Aziraphale took the offered morsel and popped it in his mouth before he’d even registered that his colleagues of the Northern, Western, and Southern gates were all shaking their heads with looks of surprise and disgust, but he couldn’t mind that, because it turned out that food was remarkable._

Honestly, after an obligatory protest, it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if it was one of the fallen. The grapes and pears and everything else really were delicious, and Crawly genuinely didn’t seem to mean any harm by it. If anything, he appeared as enamoured of the world as Aziraphale was. It was all rather unexpected (though after some thought, Aziraphale had decided against writing a corrective memo to Head Office. He had a sense that it wouldn’t be appreciated.)

A part of Aziraphale was troubled by this commonality with a demon, but that part was getting quieter as the days of solitude wore on. It wasn’t like Crawly was out to tempt _him._

And if they were both to be stationed here long term, then they would inevitably run into each other from time to time. Surely no one could object to his being civil. (Aziraphale felt very strongly right to the core of his angelic being that politeness was important. This would later go some way to explaining his affinity for the English, although the crumpets had something to do with it, too.)

He strolled on, admiring the green of the moss, the blue of the sky, the vibrant colours of the fruit and flowers. Colours like this had only had a very tenuous existence, before Eden. Diaphanous nebulae, threaded through with the black of space, were beautiful but quite intangible. Here the colours were solid, possessing a reality Aziraphale was still quite stunned by, and he couldn’t help reaching out to touch the riotous blooms, cradle the petals, stroke the leaves. The grass let out such a scent when crushed underfoot, sweet and clean.

Partly by habit, partly by desire, Aziraphale found his feet taking him to the pear tree. Of all the fruits of Eden, pears were his favourite. That strange grittiness in the teeth that melted on the tongue, the flesh soft and yielding, and running with juice. He glanced around a little furtively (eating wasn’t forbidden, as far as Aziraphale knew, but the fact that the other angels hadn’t approved still lingered in his mind) before remembering it was just him here, and reaching for a fruit-laden branch.

They were such beautiful looking things, too, like a raindrop poised to fall from the end of a leaf (and oh, how the garden had smelled after that first rain as he and Crawly walked in silent awe), hanging fat and golden in little clusters amid the branches, and so perfectly ripe that the first disappeared in barely a handful of bites, and Aziraphale unthinkingly reached for another.

Some small passage of time later, he reluctantly admitted that his stomach was full and could accommodate no further pears (fullness: what a delightful experience!) and awareness slowly crept in that his chin was wet with juice, as was his neck, and the front of his robe.

Well, that would never do, and while he was _relatively_ certain that he hadn’t done anything wrong, it didn’t seem worth the use of a miracle when there was a perfectly good river he could wash up in. (The invention of the napkin several hundred years later would make him a very happy angel indeed.)

The sun was warm on his skin when he skimmed the simple robe over his head, winching in his wings from the mortal plane so as to avoid getting in a tangle, and releasing them again once naked. He had wondered why, when Eve and Adam had been perfectly happy to go about unclothed, he and the other angels had been issued an outer layer, but had never dared ask such a question. Obviously there was a reason. (Perhaps Crawly was right, a voice whispered. Perhaps She put the Tree of Knowledge front and center knowing full well what would happen, and garbed Her messengers in anticipation of the humans’ shame. But the voice was tiny and Aziraphale buried it quickly.) It wasn’t his job to question.

Once clean, his robe remained stubbornly wet, even after he'd wrung it out quite thoroughly. And, well, the sun did feel very good on his skin and feathers, and who else was here who would care? He certainly didn’t.

He decided to walk the bank to find a good spot to lay out his garment to dry, and it was then, further from the waterfall where the river ran wide and slow, that Aziraphale came across the great black snake coiled in a sunny spot atop a slab of rock, ringed by draping bracken fronds.

“Oh, ah, hello, Crawly,” Aziraphale said a little awkwardly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Crawly raised his scaly head, tongue flicking in and out for a moment, before he answered, “Hi,” and transformed into his human shape.

Aziraphale was momentarily surprised that Crawly was naked, too, but given his own, ah, state of dishabille, that felt somewhat hypocritical and so he decided not to be. Besides, the demon made quite a lovely image, skin becoming tan and freckled in the sun, long hair fanned out beneath him on the mossy rock, the wings that had seemed black as sin the first time he’d seen them now revealing little green and pink sparks when he moved. (It did seem a little odd that She could damn a creature so beautiful, or allow such beauty to exist among the damned. But then, Eve and Adam were also beautiful, and She had cast them out, too. His was not to reason why.)

“Angel. What are you doing here?”

And those eyes, the rich, bright gold of a main sequence star, looking up at him curiously.

“Oh.” Aziraphale held up his wet robe a little embarrassedly. “Just doing a spot of laundry. What about you? Why don't you have any clothes on?" Oh, well. He could decide not to be surprised and still be curious, couldn’t he?

Crawly looked nonplussed, raising up on his elbows to glance down at himself, and then at Aziraphale’s equally unclothed state. "Didn't really see the point,” he said. “Snakes don’t wear clothes, and the humans don't seem to care about nudity. Seems kind of silly that we should."

Alarmed to have his own thoughts voiced so brazenly, Aziraphale spluttered, "They _didn't_ care. Now I rather think they would."

"Wellll, point taken," Crawly conceded. "Then again, not like they're here anymore."

And, well, that was true.

"Us too, before long," Aziraphale said mournfully, sinking down to sit on the edge of the rock. The soft moss and warm stone did actually feel quite pleasant on bare skin.

"Yeah, pity that," Crawly said with a look of commiseration. "Seems an awful waste, going to all this trouble to make a garden, only to close it up after barely any time at all."

“Well if _someone_ hadn’t--” Aziraphale started, trying to work up some righteous indignation, but his heart wasn’t in it and he subsided easily when Crawly interrupted him with a lazy wave of his hand.

“All right, _all right_. It’s not like I knew that would happen.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Aziraphale asked.

“No!” Crawly said, looking a little aggrieved now. “All I knew, there was a big tree with a Do Not Eat sign. I mean, did anyone tell _you_ what it was all about?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said. If he had known, he might have taken his apple tree duty a bit more seriously, instead of allowing himself to be distracted by the wonder of a dragonfly flitting about amid the bushes.

“Makes you wonder,” Crawly started, a very dangerous opening that Aziraphale had walked away from the last time it had been uttered. He shot Crawly a warning glance, and Crawly shrugged, lying back down on the large, flat rock.

Heavy-lidded and sun-drunk, Crawly yawned, stretching sinuously. Aziraphale's eye was drawn idly down his lean body to the patch of hair between his legs. It looked closer to what Eve had been issued with than what Adam (and Aziraphale himself) had been assigned.

"Oh, are you female?" he asked, flustered. "I do apologise, all this time I've been thinking of you as male." (Along with time, and the ineffable nature of the Great Plan, Aziraphale was still grappling with the whole idea of gender.)

"Bit of both, actually," Crawly said mildly. "Had a penis, to start with. Got curious. You know how it is."

Aziraphale did not know, and in fact hadn't even considered that he might change his God-given form. Then again, Crawly had been a snake up until a couple of minutes ago, so really it was no wonder it had occurred to _him_.

"Male is fine," Crawly added as an afterthought.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, which seemed the kind of noise one made when at a loss for something more cogent to say.

His eyes drifted down Crawly’s body again. Perhaps it was the taste of the pears still lingering in his mouth, or the knowledge that soon all this would be gone, but suddenly the sight of Crawly spread out like that, sun-warm skin and hair gleaming bright among the verdant green foliage, the _colours,_ the pure visual feast of it -- it made Aziraphale's mouth water.

"Do you know,” he said, momentarily overcome, “you look positively delicious?"

"I do?" Crawly said with raised eyebrows, glancing down his body curiously. Then, as if he were offering another new type of food he'd discovered, "Want a taste?"

It was asked quite innocently, and Aziraphale was on the verge of saying yes, as he always had so far, when it occurred to him that perhaps he… shouldn't.

"Well, better not," he said. "Angel, and all. Wouldn't want to do the wrong thing."

"Suit yourself," Crawly said, looking confused. "But I thought we'd gone over this."

"I know, I know, I can't do anything inherently bad," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "But you're a demon, so if you want to do it, too…"

"I see what you’re getting at," Crawly said thoughtfully. "Then again, why give us these bodies if we're not supposed to use them?"

And that, that was a very good point, especially given the swelling and stiffening that had been happening between Aziraphale's legs since Crawly's sinuous stretch.

Crawly glanced down at Aziraphale's lap pointedly.

"Seems to me we'd fit together quite nicely in our current configurations. Just like them." He hitched his chin in the general direction that Eve and Adam had walked away into the desert.

"Well," Aziraphale said. "When you put it like that." God had given him this body, after all. Using it properly seemed only right. Worshipful, even. He thought about all the things he had witnessed during his time here, the pleasant intimacy the humans had shared. He thought he knew where he wanted to start. "May I kiss you?"

"Okay," Crawly said with a nod. He got back up on his elbows and tilted his chin up to receive it. Aziraphale shuffled a little closer, considering his target. He cupped Crawly's cheek as a guide, and leaned forward.

Lips, it transpired, were surprisingly sensitive. After several rather pleasant moments of pressing them together, Aziraphale drew back, somewhat short of breath, to consider his next move. Crawly was looking at him with wide, surprised eyes, mouth forming a silent _oh_. They gazed at each other, Aziraphale’s hand still cupping Crawly’s jaw. And then Crawly was reaching for him with both hands, surging up from his sprawl like a bird taking flight, and the next kiss was something else entirely.

It may be useful to recall, at this point, that neither angels nor demons were originally made to inhabit corporeal forms. If one were to subscribe to the Ineffable Plan, then one might assume that God knew in advance that She would be sending Her heavenly messengers to Earth in a simulacrum of human shape, but if that were the case, it wasn’t terribly obvious. Aziraphale’s true form, or at least the form in which God created him, was something like a glowing orb of celestial light, crown floating on what may tenuously be called the ‘top’, six wings with feathers like blades, and a multitude of eyes that had a tendency to pop up all over the place like soap bubbles. (If this sounds strange, be assured, Crawly’s form was even stranger.) He could both see and _see_ , and he could most definitely fight, but until he had been re-formed for duty on Earth, made solid and small and supposedly more simple, Aziraphale had never touched anything, never heard anything, never smelled anything, never tasted.

Having a human body was, in short, a veritable overwhelming parade of the senses that, even after several months spent adapting, still regularly threw Aziraphale for a loop. That really could be the only explanation for why he did what he did.

And what he did was wrap his arms around Crawly’s shoulders and _devour_ him, kiss and kiss and kiss him until they were both short of breath. Crawly’s hands dug into his shoulders as he clung to him, mouth opening in a gasp, and he tasted so good, skin and salt and sunlight (a hint of something sharper that he didn’t have a name for yet) that Aziraphale unthinkingly chased it into his mouth, pushing his tongue in greedily. The sensation was… it was… God, it was astonishing, the way that Crawly meeting his tongue with his own could somehow make Aziraphale’s knees go hot and watery, make his breath come heavy and ragged, make his skin yearn for Crawly’s skin, as though these things could possibly be connected.

Crawly seemed to be under the same sudden mystifying influence, because the skin of his cheeks was flushed a very fetching pink, and he too was heaving for breath, wrenching his mouth away from Aziraphale’s, searching for air.

“Dear Lord,” Aziraphale murmured, turning his attention to the long arch of Crawly’s neck. “This was a very good idea.”

“Glad you think so,” Crawly panted back. “Nng, no wonder the humans were at it constantly.”

Aziraphale hummed his agreement, mouth quite occupied, currently attempting to kiss every contour of Crawly’s body. Staying close, he laid Crawly back down on the rock, glossy black wings spread beneath him, and settled by his side. He was now fully erect, and pressing himself against the smooth skin of Crawly’s hip set loose a cascade of sensations that was quite incredible. Crawly’s clever fingers were exploring him, too, and Aziraphale let out a startled moan when Crawly circled the nub of one nipple with his thumb.

“That feels…” Aziraphale tried.

“Mmm,” Crawly agreed distractedly. “Touch mine. Oh, _yesss._ Been wondering what the point of them was, on a male-shaped body, you know, not like they’re any use.”

“I wonder…” Aziraphale said, and leaned down to kiss where his finger was teasing, laving it with his tongue, and Crawly arched into it, hissing with pleasure.

“How does it feel, down there?” he asked a moment later, looking up at Aziraphale with hazy golden eyes. He was reaching between Aziraphale legs to encircle his hard flesh in his fingers. “I feel like I’m on fire, but… in a good way?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Some-- something like that.” He ran his hand down Crawly’s stomach, revelling in the contrast between smooth, soft skin and rough hair, and Crawly let his legs fall open with a helpless little whimper, so Aziraphale, ignorant of what exactly composed the female configuration, cupped him there and applied a bit of gentle pressure. “You do feel very hot,” he noted.

Crawly was inarticulate, gasping and bucking into his hand. “Pleassse,” he rasped. “Angel, pleassse, touch me.”

“I am touching you,” Aziraphale said dazedly, but nevertheless began some tentative explorations. Crawly was very soft, and very wet, and very sensitive, but touching one part in particular seemed to make him lose control of his mouth.

“Oh, I, there, yesss, can you-- rub? Ahh! Gently! Ff-fuck, angel, _Aziraphale._ ”

It was… enchanting. Engrossing. Crawly liked food well enough, but Aziraphale had always gotten the impression that he didn’t quite take the same pleasure in it as he himself did. But this, good Lord, Crawly right now was the very embodiment of pleasure, sinuous, unselfconscious, utterly beguiling, and Aziraphale was helpless to do anything but kiss him and continue to give it to him.

Crawly took his wrist and guided it deeper between his legs, murmured, “Push in.” And there, yes, an opening to his body, that strangely vulnerable place that Eve had so enjoyed Adam exploring. Crawly’s flesh there felt like a ripe pear, soft and yielding and running with juice.

“I want--” Aziraphale gasped between kisses. “I want-- something.” He wasn’t quite sure what, only that Crawly’s hand around his erection felt like nothing he had experienced before. He was thrusting in earnest now, and his body was strangely tight, as though his skin was too small for him all of a sudden, like he was on a precipitous edge and about to flex his wings. Like that moment on top of the wall when the air smelled of rain just before it fell.

“Me too,” Crawly muttered, and pulled Aziraphale’s hand away, and before Aziraphale could complain, pushed him flat on his back and swung himself over Aziraphale’s lap. He rubbed himself slowly down the length of Aziraphale’s erection, back up again, down, and Aziraphale shuddered hard and screwed his eyes closed against the force of the sensations. “Can I?”

“Yes, yes, God yes,” Aziraphale gasped, barely understanding what Crawly intended and wanting it anyway.

Crawly took his erection in hand and teased himself a moment between the legs until Aziraphale’s flesh was wet with his juices and they were both moaning, and then Crawly put him to that place, that soft, welcoming place where his fingers had been, and slowly sank down on him until they were joined.

Aziraphale looked up, stunned, into Crawly’s wide yellow eyes, the red waterfall of his hair, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and saw every impossible thing he was feeling reflected back at him. And there were many things to think in that moment, many strange and wonderful and fearful things, but what Aziraphale would remember later was the kinship of it, the no-longer-alone-ness of it, and how it made his eyes burn and his chest squeeze and his heart sing.

And then Crawly moved, that simple up-and-down they had witnessed but could never have fathomed, and Aziraphale became incapable of thought. He held Crawly’s hips and could do nothing but watch and marvel at the sight, all the wonder of Creation, distilled into this one being. Light overwhelmed Aziraphale’s senses as Crawly brought them both to the edge of a thing they had no name for, and he loved… he loved… he loved the moment poised on the brink, before they tumbled over together.

Afterwards, shivering, shaken, Aziraphale reached up and touched Crawly’s hair, cradled his face in both hands, and drew him down to kiss him gently. Crawly lay down on top of him, as spent as Aziraphale, wings slacked, and tucked his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale was equally exhausted, but something made him bring his wings up to mantle them around Crawly: a strange protective impulse, similar to the one that had made him lift his wing to shelter him from the rain with no regard for himself, only smaller, tighter, and infinitely more tender.

“That was--” Crawly tried. “We should-- Angel, that was spectacular.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agreed.

“We should-- we should definitely do that again.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said. The words had just appeared on his tongue, he didn’t know quite what they meant, but holding Crawly, bodies touching, wings touching, profoundly moved by what they had just done, it felt absolutely right. “I quite agree.”


	3. 2 - Fusion

_**~Interlude~** _

_And then what?_

Well, and then things get hotter and hotter until… See, making hydrogen nuclei is easy, in the grand scheme of things. Take a proton, right? That's basically it. Sometimes add a neutron. 'S not that hard. The leap from hydrogen to helium, though, that's a thing. Takes a whole boatload of energy to force four of those recalcitrant little bastards to share space in a nucleus.

_They don't just… attract? (Like you and I? Tell me we're just another law of nature, an inevitable binding.)_

They get close enough, they do. Almost impossible to separate, eventually. But to start with, no. Something has to force them together, some external circumstance. Something like the heat generated in a collapsing gas cloud.

_(Something like a conversation on a wall, an unexpected moment of kinship, the way my stomach swooped like a swallow when you smiled at me, close, close, under my wing.)_

Are you still listening?

_Yes, go on, my dear._

So, it gets hot enough to push the hydrogen nuclei together to form helium, but the really clever bit comes next, because, angel, get this. When they fuse, they actually release _more_ energy. It's like Creation in miniature. Happens fast, too. _BOOM._ And suddenly your nice innocuous little gas cloud is a fiery ball of nuclear fusion.

**Chapter 2: Fusion**

**1 B.C.**

Aziraphale sat on the grassy slope and watched events unfolding on the opposite hill: the shepherds falling to their knees, the sheep going mad with fear. He could hear the panicked bleating all the way across the valley. It was a dark, moonless night, but Gabriel was giving off enough light to see for miles around (as if that… thing in the sky wasn’t enough). And his booming voice, good heavens.

It was showy, is what it was. Aziraphale wouldn’t have done it that way.

He’d been the one tasked with setting this whole thing up, and it was a great honour, really. The coming of the Christ Child was a new idea the Almighty had only told the higher ups about recently, but Aziraphale was wholly in favour. Anything ( _anything)_ was better than another flood, but of course he would never say such a thing out loud, and besides, a baby was… a new beginning, in more ways that one. Aziraphale had been thrilled to have his work on Earth recognised when the archangels asked him to set things in motion.

But then, nine months ago (a celestial blink of an eye after all the decades of prep work Aziraphale had done) Gabriel swooped in with his flowing robes and flowing locks and excess of wings, and Aziraphale had been demoted to mere observer.

He was… he was fine with it. He was a mere principality and it was only right and proper that the denouement be handled by an archangel. The Annunciation and subsequent birth were the most important parts of the whole shebang and it made sense to hand over the reins to his seniors (and truth be told Aziraphale hadn’t been especially keen to facilitate the barely-consented pregnancy of a young girl). So Gabriel could have it, and good luck to him.

That’s what he thought when he was sober.

Aziraphale was not very sober right now.

“Really, scaring those poor boys like that,” he muttered to himself. “Is there a need?”

He was just reaching for his wineskin again when a voice from behind made him jump so hard his wings manifested in a flurry of indignance and feathers.

“I give it a ten for enthusiasm, but the execution _is_ a bit gauche.”

“Crawly!”

Aziraphale’s gloom lifted immediately. Crawly sat down beside him, folding his wings against his back, and reached for the wineskin without taking his eyes from the (yes, Aziraphale had to agree, somewhat tacky) spectacle before them.

“ _Be ye not afraid?_ Really?” Crawly said, taking a swig. “That pompous git enjoys it when they cower, can’t tell me he doesn’t.”

“Yes, I rather imagine he had a hard time keeping a straight face when he said that bit,” Aziraphale nodded.

Crawly did glance over at him then, an expression of disbelieving glee on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Aziraphale said, a little sulkily. “It’s not a sin to have opinions.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that, angel,” Crawly said, but he was smiling and it made warmth kindle in Aziraphale too, until he was smiling back.

It was so good to see him again. Oh, hold on -- though Crawly’s form appeared to be male, he was wearing the longer abaya of the women of the region, and Aziraphale knew that, over the last four thousand years, Crawly had rather come to consider gender to be whatever he felt like on any given year, and not at all connected to whatever he was currently manifesting beneath his clothes. Since it had been some time since they’d last seen each other, Aziraphale decided it was best not to presume.

“What, ah… What gender, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ehhh,” Crawly said off-handedly, that funny little vocal fry that had become so very familiar. “Female.”

Aziraphale nodded, and made the mental adjustment.

It was so good to see _her_ again. It had been a long time, a couple of centuries at least, and things hadn’t felt right between them since, well, since the Ark. After that, they just hadn’t seemed to run into each other quite as often despite the, ah, more concentrated population, and Aziraphale had started to wonder if Crawly was angry with him. Which was ridiculous, because what right did a demon have to…? And why should Aziraphale care, anyway? And it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other at all. They had seen each other. Spoken in passing, had the occasional drink. But the intimacy… he didn’t miss it. Why would he? They were on opposite sides and there were so many humans these days that it really was quite an important thing to take into account. Only…

(“You know he’s got that poor girl riding a donkey to Bethlehem for the census?” Crawly said. “Nearly nine months pregnant and travelling on a _donkey_. I’d love to see Gabriel try one out, see how he likes it.”

“Good Lord, could you imagine?”

“I’d give my wings to see him try to bully one of those creatures into going in the right direction. Or, you know, moving at all.”

“A battle of wits for the ages. D’you think--” Aziraphale waved at the field where the shepherds were slowly rising to their feet, holding onto each other for dear life. “What if he rode a-- a _sheep_.” He giggled drunkenly at the image. “One of the ones over there currently turning in circles. Serve him right after making them run themselves dizzy.”

“That’d be a sight. Oh, or a cow. They worship those in some parts of the world, you know.”

“Oh no, dear girl, we wouldn’t want him to get jealous.”

“Yyyyy-- Fair point. Maybe a…” Crawly gestured expansively. “Giant toad. Could miracle one up for him.”

“Oh I don’t think he’d like the skin. Too… what’s the word. You know, uneven. Covered in knobbles.”

“Knobbly?”

“Right, too knobbly.”

“Oh? What about a snail then? Nice palanquin on top of the shell, slow-moving so everyone’s got time to admire him, yeah I like it.”

“ _King of the snails_ ,” Aziraphale spluttered, dissolving. Crawly gave a brief, loud laugh, and when Aziraphale had wiped the tears from his eyes, he saw the remnants of it still lighting up her face as she gazed at Aziraphale.)

...only there wasn’t anyone else who quite understood what it was like, to live among mortals, to love the world they made (to be subject to the sometimes indecipherable and often seemingly ill-informed whims of their higher-ups or, as the case may be, lower-downs). And sometimes, just occasionally, when Crawly hadn’t been there the last three thousand years, Aziraphale had wished... she had been.

Crawly stretched, wings shivering, before she flopped back on one elbow, head propped on her fist, and said, “It’s good to see you again, Aziraphale.”

Her tone was mild, but her eyes, oh they were so warm. Aziraphale couldn’t help responding to that look. He’d seen it before so many times -- beneath him, above him, beside him. But they weren’t-- they hadn’t-- not for three thousand years. Before, when they had been more easy with each other, Aziraphale would have simply leaned down right into that look and pressed his lips to Crawly’s, but now he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to anymore, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself, so instead he looked away.

Across the valley, the shepherds began to round up their jittering sheep and head in the direction of the… of the thing. Aziraphale sighed, and lay back beside Crawly in the soft, cool grass.

"I wonder what it is,” he said, pointing up at the twinkling diamond in the night sky. It was almost painful to look at directly, as bright as the full moon but far more concentrated. “Gabriel's calling it a star. Taking credit for it too, no doubt. Seems awfully bright, though -- I can’t see how it’s at all similar to any of the others."

Crawly was looking at him instead of the sky. Aziraphale could feel the warmth of her gaze on the side of his face like the rays of the sun. And then the tension went out of her, only obvious for having been there now that she’d relaxed, and she rolled onto her back too, the way Aziraphale had.

"'S called a supernova, angel," she said softly. "It's a star that's reached the end of its life cycle."

Aziraphale glanced at her, surprised. "How do _you_ know that?"

"What, you think I don't know things?" Crawly said, wry amusement curling up the corner of her mouth. "I’m a demon of the world. Besides, demon wasn't my first job description, you know."

Aziraphale swallowed, watching Crawly's profile nervously in the dark. She was talking about… surely she must be talking about… But imagining Crawly as an angel was difficult in some way Aziraphale wasn't yet ready to face, and so he looked away again to the-- _supernova_ , and made an effort to keep things in neutral territory.

"Stars have life cycles? Really? I always thought they were just… there. You know, like us. Immortal, in their own way."

"Oh yeah, it's a whole thing. Remind me to tell you about it some time."

Aziraphale frowned, wondering why he couldn’t just ask now. But something in Crawly’s manner suggested that he shouldn’t, though what it was, he couldn’t exactly say (a certain wistfulness he wasn’t yet ready to address). Suddenly, the ground was rocky here, too, and so he searched again for something else to say.

“So what’s brought you all the way out here?”

Crawly rolled her head to look at Aziraphale. “You are joking, right? Birth of the Son of God. You think Downstairs was going to have me sit this one out?”

Aziraphale went distinctly warm in the face -- a product of the wine, no doubt. Of course Crawly wouldn’t be there just to catch up (no matter how nice it would be for Crawly to be there just to see him). That was foolish.

“Well I hope you’re not planning any wiles in the next few weeks,” he said, more snippily than he intended. “Mariam, that poor dear, has been through quite enough lately, and the baby--”

“I don’t hurt babies,” Crawly said, and her voice was gentle but there was something hard and painful underneath it. Aziraphale knew, because he felt it too.

“No,” he murmured, the umbrage bleeding out of him. “No, I know you don’t.” Crawly had never come out and said it again, not since they’d stood side by side watching the animals being loaded on board, but Aziraphale knew that if Crawly chose that moment to remind them both whose side was the more ruthless there, Aziraphale wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. His stomach twisted with that sour, churning feeling that came upon him whenever he thought of the Ark, but the demon remained silent, as she always did, and Aziraphale tried to feel relieved. He _was_ relieved. It had been the will of God, there was nothing to discuss.

He cleared his throat, cajoling his voice into lightness. “All the same, I’d better keep an eye on you, make sure you’re not getting up to no good.”

“Sort of my modus operandi, angel. Getting up to no good,” Crawly said, with a small smirk that nevertheless set Aziraphale’s racing thoughts at ease.

“Your what?”

“My raison d’etre.”

“Oh, do speak Aramaic.”

Crawly was outright grinning now. “Relax, I’m not on the clock for a few years yet.”

“Oh, well, good.” Aziraphale huffed. He reached over to take the wineskin back, hand brushing Crawly’s as he did so, and tried to distract himself from the pleasurable little gambol his heart did at the contact by raising the skin to his lips. “It’s empty,” he said mournfully. “You fiend.”

Crawly tipped her head in acknowledgement, looking pleased. “Find an inn, then? Somewhere we can watch the show? Next round’s on me.”

Aziraphale sat up immediately and quickly tucked the empty skin into his robes. “Yes! Excellent idea! If we fly, perhaps we can avoid the rush.”

*

It wasn’t far by wing, but they did not, in fact, manage to avoid the rush. Blasted census. At every inn they went to it was the same story: no room. And worse, not even the space to come in, sit down, and get a drink and a bite to eat. Aziraphale was exhausted and on the verge of just dealing with it the ethereal way when they finally found something, right out on the edge of town.

“You’re lucky, ‘s probably the last room in Bethlehem,” the innkeep joked as he led them to their lodgings after dinner.

Aziraphale shot a chastising look at Crawly (flagrantly ignoring the fact that his own thoughts had been heading in that very direction) but the demon just shrugged, silently pleading her innocence. Oh well, sometimes good luck really did happen all by itself.

He found himself reevaluating that opinion once inside the room. It was small and low-ceilinged as public accommodations generally were in this part of the world, a bowl of pears set on a single side table the only adornment. The room was poorly lit by a couple of oil lamps that were smoking just enough to make the light hazy. That wasn’t the problem, though. The problem was that, in the middle of the room, taking up the majority of the floorspace, was a bed. A large, nicely appointed, but singular bed.

He shouldn’t be surprised, Aziraphale thought distantly. They were clearly being treated as husband and wife, and it wasn’t like there were any other options for accommodation even if they weren’t. He didn’t know why he was surprised. And yet, somehow, he hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed. He did like to lie back and get comfortable, even if he didn’t usually sleep, but sharing seemed… well, it seemed…

“What?” said Crawly, eyeing him sideways.

“Uh, nothing,” said Aziraphale, eyeing her back. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a bed before. It had just been a while. He certainly wasn’t going to be the first to get flustered about it. “You, ah, you get comfortable and I’ll just…” he gestured down the hallway to where there was a small room for performing ablutions.

“All right, then,” Crawly said slowly, as though trying to work something out. Aziraphale darted a glance at her again before leaving the room. There was only one tiny window in there, the shutter closed, that was why he felt so uncomfortably warm.

He was gone probably longer than was strictly necessary, and when he came back, Crawly was in bed, asleep, her naked limbs sprawled across more than her fair share of the bed, long red hair spilling across the pillow.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed softly, momentarily stunned by her beauty. How was it that this could still happen to him after so long? He remembered that first encounter in the Garden despite a thousand trysts since then, a series of bright colours and brighter sensations, the giddy joy of a new experience. His fingers twitched with the remembered feel of Crawly’s hair. He knew he shouldn’t -- he hadn’t asked and he didn’t know if this was still okay, if his touch was at all welcome anymore. It had seemed as though it wasn’t, and yet Aziraphale couldn’t help his confusion at the way Crawly looked at him sometimes. Like she still wanted him.

(He should ask. He longed to. But he knew he’d missed something, and what if it was the kind of thing that would be obvious to anyone else? What if Crawly thought him stupid or ridiculous for not knowing? Worse, what if she laughed, the way Gabriel did when Aziraphale tripped up? Not _at him_ per se, but as though he were being humoured. If she’d found something better to amuse herself with then he supposed he couldn’t blame her, but he thought he’d rather not know, all the same.)

Aziraphale climbed onto the narrow strip of bed still available and carefully balanced himself on his side so that he could look at her. She was lying on her stomach, face turned away, but the light made the bare skin of her shoulders golden and her hair vivid as polished copper. He hesitated a moment, trying to find the will to resist, but he had never been very good at denying himself, and before he was conscious of having made the decision, his fingers were stroking through the ends of Crawly’s hair.

“Mmm,” Crawly sighed. “Tha’snice.”

Aziraphale froze. “I thought you were-- I’m so sorry, I--”

“Don’t ssstop,” Crawly yawned, and so, throat tight, Aziraphale took up his ministrations once more, and less furtively this time, digging his fingers into her scalp the way she liked before running his fingers down through the unruly waves.

“Aziraphale,” Crawly murmured, high in her throat and soft. “Missed you.”

How was Aziraphale supposed to remain unaffected by that?

“It wasn’t me who went away.” How did he sound so hurt? He genuinely didn’t mean to. Hadn’t even really realised he felt that way until the words came out. And yet, it was so clear in his tone that he barely resisted the urge to wince away from the quiet revelation.

Crawly twisted, turning to meet his eyes, brows pinched. “Angel… it’s not as simple as that.”

“Did I… did I upset you somehow?”

“No, sweetheart. No,” she said softly, even though she did look upset now, and Aziraphale was caught between the way his heart squeezed at the easy endearment, so sweet after so long, and unease at the naked emotion on Crawly’s face. He _didn’t_ want to ask, but Crawly had never really let him look away from the truth and now wasn’t any different. “I _was_ angry, after the Ark, but not-- at you,” she said. “I didn’t blame you. You know that, don’t you? I… I could see how hard you were trying to-- justify what happened. Even though we both knew it was unjustif--” she cut herself off, eyes falling away, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she spoke again. “I didn’t want to be the reason you started asking questions you shouldn’t.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, though he wasn’t sure he did. Was she implying that… that too many questions might…? She gazed up at him unflinchingly. Oh. Yes. That was exactly what she was implying.

He wondered for the first time exactly what it was that Crawly had done to cause her to Fall. It couldn’t have been anything too-- he simply couldn’t imagine that she would--

“May I kiss you?” he asked. The corner of Crawly’s mouth flicked into a smile at the echoing of his words from the Garden, and it changed her whole face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, rolling over fully to face him.

“For what?” he asked, swallowing nervously, the only way he could keep his heart down where it belonged.

“For not telling you before,” she said. “You never need to ask.” And she hooked one long-fingered hand behind his neck, and pulled him close.

They kissed for an age, deep, searching kisses that left Aziraphale raw, plundered. There had been times, at the beginning, when they had fumbled at each other as they tried to learn this new skill of physical intimacy. And later, when the humans were still so scarce that there really wasn’t much else to do, they’d sometimes spent days at a time in bed driving each other insensible with pleasure. They had been beginners and experts together, and everything in between, but there was a weight and deliberation to Crawly’s touch tonight that Aziraphale had never felt before, as though she were trying to commit every touch, every kiss, every bead of sweat to memory. It gave Aziraphale pangs of longing that he couldn’t understand -- what did he still have to long for, with her finally there in his bed again?

“Mmm,” he sighed as she kissed the side of his neck, working her way to that most sensitive point where his neck met his shoulder and the skin was so fine. “Yes, that feels good.”

“You feel good,” Crawly countered, trailing over to his shoulder while her other hand found a nipple. Aziraphale arched into it, pushing his erection into Crawly’s flat stomach and feeling hers push back into him. “Have you touched yourself, angel? Since I last did?”

“I-- I-- have _you_?”

“Course I have.” She raised her head briefly to grin wickedly down at him, before resuming her attentions to the inside of his elbow. “Thinking of you, just like this.” That hand on his nipple trailed down his ribs and hip to cup his arse, urging him to rock against her.

Aziraphale pictured her as she had been earlier -- alone in the bed, sprawled across it -- but the covers kicked down around her ankles as she pleasured herself, eyes closed, hand moving frantically between her legs, and he couldn’t help the noise he made or his own urgent response. Hauling her up, Aziraphale grabbed two handfuls of her hair and swallowed her shout in a ravenous kiss. God, it was-- it felt like-- it was like hunger, only not the affectation of it that Aziraphale enjoyed putting on every now and again, but the way the humans experienced it, the drive that She had written into their bones to find nourishment or die.

Crawly was making the most incredible noises, one hand bracing herself against the mattress, the other wrapped around their erections. She was muttering and begging, broken sentences that Aziraphale swallowed with a ruthless tenderness that was almost frightening in its intensity, and when she came, hot and wet between them, he rolled her over and held her hands down beside her head as he worked himself through the mess she’d made and stared helplessly down into her lamp-flame eyes.

  


When it was over, everything trembled (the world trembled) but instead of collapsing limply by Crawly’s side as he was accustomed, Aziraphale pulled her back on top of him and held on to her tightly, mess and everything.

“Are you all right?” Crawly asked, lips brushing his ear as she petted his hair, idly twisting it around her fingertips in that way he loved.

What could he say? That first time they had lain together, he hadn’t yet known the words for the things he wanted. Aziraphale felt very much like that now. Somewhere, deep inside, despite the physical release, some part of him had caught alight and now the flames were roaring.

“I’m fine,” he said, and tried to hold her, impossibly, closer.

They didn’t get up again for two days.

*

The stable didn’t smell half as bad as it could have (the Ark intruded on Aziraphale’s thoughts once more, those long months cooped up with a boat full of terrified animals and unwashed, equally terrified humans) but it was _loud_. The shepherds had just arrived, each lad bringing in a lamb and a sharp-looking blade with which, Aziraphale assumed, to sacrifice the poor creatures. Hardly appropriate to do in the same room as a newborn, but they were simple boys and hadn’t been told any different. On top of that was the chatter of the local women who had come to help with the birth, and were still standing about muttering ominously about the number of men present, the restless stamping and mooing of the cattle, the slightly more distant but nevertheless _constant_ baa-ing from the shepherds’ flock, and one very unimpressed-looking donkey. Aziraphale stood at the back of the crowd, absently twisting his signet ring around his little finger, while Yosef tried urgently to postpone the bloodshed and Mariam, grey-faced and puffy-eyed with exhaustion, plucked her hours-old baby from the pile of blankets one of the local women had arranged for him in an animal trough of all things, and held him protectively against her chest.

“This is more fun than I was expecting,” Crawly said from her spot leaning against the half-door to a cattle stall, where she was watching the mounting chaos with avid amusement.

“Oh, yes, very entertaining,” Aziraphale muttered. No wonder Gabriel had made such a smart exit after the birth. This was… less than dignified.

There were a handful of other townspeople gathering around the stable door behind them, gossiping about the spectacle before them, and every time the phrase _no room in the inn_ was uttered, Crawly’s face lit up with demonic delight and Aziraphale was forced to glare at her.

“Oh come on,” Crawly said, sauntering closer, “you have to admit, it’s pretty funny. Son of God and all, wrapped in rags and surrounded by animal shi--”

“Yes _thank you_ ,” Aziraphale said. It did nothing to abate Crawly’s glee. “You act as if She didn’t plan it this way,” he said, with a quick, reverent glance at the rafters. “She can be rather, well…”

“Dickish? Unstable?”

“Ineffable.” He sighed, looking over the crowds of unnecessary people, animals, and noise. “I’m sorry, I really am, but I just can’t take any more of this.”

He clicked his fingers, and suddenly the cattle were calm, the sheep had all found some scrummy cud to occupy their mouths, the shepherds decided to go off for a nap and the group of muttering women realised that they really needed to go home and cook up a nice, hearty batch of stew for the new parents.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale said encouragingly, stepping forward to usher everyone out. “Off you go.” The stable door closed behind them, shutting out the gawping onlookers, and Aziraphale took a deep breath, savouring the quiet. “Now, my dear,” he said to Mariam, lifting the tiny bundle from her arms. “A good sleep would do you a world of good.” She collapsed back on her pallet, out cold, and a moment later, Yosef joined her. “All is well, the baby is safe. You will sleep deeply and dream of whatever you like best,” he said.

When he looked up, Crawly was standing beside him. Aziraphale dared her with a glance to say something, anything, but instead of smirking that infuriatingly knowing smirk, she smiled at him gently. It struck him in the heart, the softest of blows.

“Have I ever mentioned how hot it is when you take charge?” she said conversationally.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale spluttered, wrenched rudely out of the tranquil moment.

“What? We’re the only ones here!”

Aziraphale glanced pointedly at the two humans.

“And conscious,” she amended.

“What about the baby?” Aziraphale said sternly. “I thought you weren’t supposed to try corrupting him until he was older.”

Crawly stuttered a bit in indignation until Aziraphale glanced up from beneath his lashes, failing to hold in his smile.

“Oh, you are--” Crawly said, wagging a finger at him. What he was, however, would have to wait, as the donkey (which Aziraphale had forgotten about) took that moment to bray loudly enough to wake the baby.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said, almost fumbling the angry bundle in his panic. He tried making shushing noises and when that failed to work, looked up at Crawly and whispered frantically, “What-- what do I do?”

“Are you seriou-- Maybe you should’ve _thought of that_ before you put his parents to sleep,” Crawly hissed back. Aziraphale looked at her beseechingly, Crawly looked back in disbelief that lasted five, six seconds, before throwing up her arms dramatically and stalking over to take the child, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, both genuinely grateful and very pleased to have gotten out of this one. “Let me just…” and he went to deal with the donkey.

When he turned back, Crawly had put the tiny bundle to her shoulder and was tapping it rhythmically somewhere in the vicinity of its bottom. Outside, a cloud shifted and light came through one of the stable’s small, high windows, the grey-white light of the supernova. Crawly murmured something so quietly that Aziraphale couldn’t make out the words, though there was the hint of a familiar tune to it, and suddenly his chest was filled with _want_ , brimful and burning, not exactly sexual in nature, but still connected somehow to what had happened between them at the inn.

“You’re very good at that,” he said stupidly.

Crawly glanced up, the slanting light making her eyes as bright as egyptian gold. “I’m not. You’re just unnaturally bad at it.”

“No, I remember, it was always the same with Cain and Abel.”

Crawly flushed, looking furious. “They were differe--”

“We’ll do this again, won’t we?” Aziraphale cut her off before he could stop himself, the words just flaring out of him, loud and unrelated.

Crawly looked startled, the flurry of anger melting away as precipitously as it had appeared. “Provide a babysitting service for the Son of God?” she said in consternation. “I sincerely hope not. If they ever hear about this Downstairs--”

“No, I mean, the last couple of days, at the inn. Staying-- the night. With me. No-- no more running off after a few drinks.”

Crawly looked at him for a long moment laden with many things, chief of which was the weight of the admission that Aziraphale didn’t want to go another three thousand years without her in his bed.

“If that’s what you want,” Crawly said, the words coming out slow and cautious.

Aziraphale swallowed down the tension in his throat. “It is.”

“We’ll have to be careful. You know both our sides will be watching closely, at least for the next few decades. And after that…”

“It’s not like the risk will go away,” Aziraphale said, shoulders unravelling in relief. “I know.” He couldn’t think about it now.

“The world has changed, angel.”

“I know,” he repeated. “Seems like that’s going to be a human thing, though.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you.”

Crawly looked very serious, but Aziraphale couldn’t help the soft smile that came to his face. His chest was aflame and he couldn’t help the way the light bled out of him. She would rage at him to hear it, but sometimes she could be so very sweet. Holding a baby, promising to protect him, (naked beneath him, whispering his name), right now it was almost more than he could stand.

“Nor I you.”

Whatever they were, whatever their jobs were, they had never had cause to hurt the other, and Aziraphale didn’t see why that should ever change. Protection was only an obvious extension. Mutually beneficial. He was glad they saw eye-to-eye.

Crawly didn’t smile back. She wasn’t one for big shows of positive emotion, and so Aziraphale didn’t read too much into it. Instead, he touched her cheek gently before letting his hand slide back to her shoulder blade and steering her in the direction of a comfortable looking hay bale.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a full amphora and we have a couple of hours to kill before everyone wakes up again.”

He helped Crawly get comfortable and then sat beside her, allowing himself the luxury of touch all down the side of his body, soaking up her warmth from shoulder to knee.

“So you’re sticking around for a bit, then?” Crawly asked nonchalantly, shifting the baby to the crook of her arm and fussing with his blankets.

“Oh. Yes. Mostly an observational role for now, filling in reports, keeping them all up to date Upstairs, that kind of thing. Maybe help certain things along now and again, provide a little bit of divine guidance and the like. You?”

“Not strictly needed here for another decade or so. Not… expressly. Thought I might hang around, though. See what happens.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, smiling again, this time in satisfaction. The heat in him didn’t abate, but Crawly’s words had banked it, for now. That was a relief. That was very pleasant news indeed.


	4. 3 - Balance

**_~Interlude~_ **

After that, you've got a main sequence star, happy to shine away for however long. Millions of years, probably, if She'd let it.

_The atoms stop falling inwards? (Tell me there's an end, a soft landing. Surely it can't go on forever.)_

For now. Gravity's still pulling them in, but the force of the fusion is also trying to push them back out.

_Like a tug of war._

Exactly. Both sides are equally matched. No one's going anywhere. The forces are balanced.

_Oh. A little like us._

You… yeah. You could say that.

**Chapter 3: Balance**

**1124 A.D.**

Aziraphale stared back at the convent from the seat of her cart while she waited for Peter to harness the pony. It was a lovely building, glazed windows that sparkled in the weak morning light, with carvings in the stone around the frames, a comfortable interior, gardens within and acres of picturesque farmland without. The biggest benefit to the deplorable habit the nobility had of offloading their inconvenient widows to a life of chastity and prayer was the donations they brought with them. Oh, the library was quite something! The collection of ancient scrolls, carefully preserved. Thirty quires and a handful of codices that the sisters lovingly toiled away at replicating. Aziraphale had been very happy here.

She didn't _want_ to leave, but after two decades, they were starting to notice that she hadn't aged, beyond what even her self-ascribed virtue and the supposed power of prayer could explain. There was no choice.

"Sister Mariam!"

Aziraphale looked up to see the abbess hurrying across the courtyard towards her like a bent-backed spider, keys jangling against each other where they hung from her belt, kirtle held up above her knobbly knees to keep it out of the mud.

"Abbess Isolda."

Aziraphale’s smile was a watery thing.

"You always were a sneaky one,” the abbess said cheerfully. “In the scriptorium after hours, in the kitchens before hours, and now sneaking away while we’re all at prime.” Aziraphale looked down, caught. “Now now, child," Isolda said, reaching up with clawed fingers cool as stone to pat Aziraphale’s hand. "None of that. This is God's work you're doing."

That was only true in the broadest sense, but Isolda wasn't to know that Aziraphale had spent the last twenty years illuminating manuscripts not to spread the word of God (though that was a nice little bonus, of course) but because she wanted to.

The peace, the methodical creation of something beautiful. Yes, after the Crusade, she had very much desired it.

And now it was coming to an end, as all things did, when it came to humans.

"Please pass on my regards to the sisters," Aziraphale said. She had already said her goodbyes to each woman individually, but what else was there to say at a time like this? The urge to fix it all with a miracle was strong. She could do that, turn their minds away from questioning why good old Sister Mariam never got a new wrinkle or grey hair, but it wouldn't be right. Humans were curious, and had free will, and these humans in particular were very dear to her. She couldn't take that away from them. And so she took herself away instead.

"Go safely, dear," Isolda said. And then she produced a small parcel of cloth wrapping, inside of which was a roll of fresh baked wheat bread, still warm from the oven. "A little something for the journey. I know they're your favourite."

Aziraphale did cry, then.

*

It would be a two week journey at best, trundling up from Archdale Abbey a little north of Oxford in her small pony-drawn cart, until she could meet up with the Great North Road, which would take her all the way to Whitby. It wasn’t terribly safe to travel through the woods alone, but the detour would've doubled her journey time, and besides, if push came to shove, Aziraphale technically had the means to defend herself.

As a woman of the cloth, however, she didn’t expect any trouble.

The first day of travel was uneventful, but as the night drew in, so did the weather, and no sooner had Aziraphale decided it was time to pull over to the side of the road for the night than it started to spit. She drew her cloak closer around herself and glared at the sky.

Well, this was a perfect start. Forced from her warm, comfortable abbey, the entire day from sunrise to dusk spent sitting on a hard wooden bench seat, and now this. Further up the road were other abbeys she would be able to take shelter in, with a nice dry bed and a hot meal. But not tonight. Tonight she was on her own. Just her, Fredric, and the creatures of Sherwood Forest, all of them getting slowly soaked by the relentless drizzle.

If she were a better angel, she thought miserably, she’d be able to appreciate that there was a lesson in every hardship, a way to worship Her, always. She looked around, hopelessly. The forest was very beautiful, the bright, new green of late spring even in the fading light, and the myriad little flowers that grew on the verge and in tufts between the ruts of the wheel tracks were really quite delightful, but instead of awe, Aziraphale just felt cold, and hungry, and mildly resentful.

She huddled in closer beneath her cloak, and wondered if she could get away with miracling a fire.

 _It_ is _a bit damp._

Aziraphale snorted. She’d said that to someone… someone she was currently refusing to think about. It’d been hundreds of years ago, at this point, but it was still bloody true. _Why_ she had been compelled to settle in this wet little country she would never know, but she supposed she only had herself to blame for that. It was something about the language, though. There was something fascinating about it, its inherent flexibility. Aziraphale couldn’t quite see what it was yet but she sensed it in the people and the writing, an ethereal eye always looking ahead… something special would come of it, she could see its imminence, and she was irresistibly drawn by it to stay and bear witness.

She apparently wasn’t the only one. Someone else -- who she still very definitely wasn’t thinking about, thank you very much -- had apparently settled here too, and although she hadn’t seen him in a handful of decades (since before the Crusade -- no, no thinking about it) she was almost certain he’d had his hand in recent domestic politics. What other explanation was there for King Henry?

And the Crusade. Lord in Heaven. If there was a closer approximation of Hell to be found on Earth, Aziraphale didn’t want to know about it. Three years on the march, a year of fighting, the final wretched bloodbath that had left the gutters of the Holy City running red with the loss of life. She had returned to England, after; shed her armour and shaved her beard and changed her entire form to try to escape the muck of it. But the dirt had been on a soul-deep level, and even two decades of peace and quiet later, the stain was still there.

Oh, she hoped Crowley hadn’t had a hand in that. But if he had, she didn’t want to know.

*

The next day the road, which was packed earth and uneven enough to start with, was a squelching mess of sticky mud, criss-crossed by little streams and run-offs from the rain. Aziraphale was up and down from the seat of her cart every few minutes it seemed, guiding poor Fredric through the worst of it on foot. At one point she lost a boot to a particularly boggy patch and tried to convince Fredric to back up so she could retrieve it while hopping about like a one-legged frog, but was eventually forced to concede that a miracle was in order. There was no one around, it would be fine. And then she did another little one to clean the thick, wet mud from her hem, and another to dry off the seat of the cart after a gust of wind sent a splatter of last night’s rainwater down from the leaves above.

Around midday, they came across a dip in the road that had formed a slightly more substantial stream, but it didn’t look too deep.

“What do you think?” she said to Fredric. His furry ears twitched back, listening. “I say we cross this last little bit and then stop for lunch.” The idea of three solid meals a day had gone somewhat out of fashion since the Romans had left northern Europe. Aziraphale was bearing the lack of a morning meal as best she could, but that meant that the remaining mealtimes were not to be trifled with. She spurred the pony on with a click of her tongue. “Come on, old boy, let’s get to it.”

They almost made it. Really, they were so close. It _wasn’t_ deep, Aziraphale had been right about that, but there were rocks, and they slowed the cart’s momentum enough to allow them to sink into the mud. Fredric stood, forelegs on the opposite bank, hind legs still in the water, straining in the harness to no avail.

“Whoa, boy,” Aziraphale called, not wanting him to injure himself. She leaned over the side to inspect the damage, but there wasn’t much to see. The little cart’s wheels were both sunk about a hand’s breadth into the mud, and that meant her options were limited to getting soaked to her skin in wet mud while attempting to lever it out. That was it. The road was empty, she hadn’t passed anyone else all morning. That was her only option.

Well, unless she did another miracle. Just another small one, surely she could explain it away on her next accounts report. Yes. She straightened, and raised her hand, and that was when she noticed she wasn’t alone anymore.

Silently, from seemingly nowhere, a group of rather rough-looking humans had surrounded her cart. And they all, to a man, had arrows ready-nocked in their bows. They were pointed downwards, the bowstrings slack, but regardless. She should be wary.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said nervously. “I’m afraid I’m, ah, rather stuck here.”

“So you are,” said one of the men, who looked more bear than human.

“I don’t suppose you’d fancy… getting me out?”

“Not what I’d fancy, no,” the bear-like man said. There was no particular menace to his words, in fact he looked rather affable, if a little on the earthy side. “You see, m’lady, this is a trap.”

“A trap?”

He nodded.

Aziraphale sighed gustily, eyes going up to the sky out of habit. “Just what I need.” She pointed a finger at the bear-like man. “I’ll have you know this is incredibly inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” he asked, bushy eyebrows disappearing into his mane of hair.

“Yes, _inconvenient!”_

Holding his bow and arrow in one hand, the man scratched his beard thoughtfully before turning to the fellow next to him, a young man who somehow managed to be both gangly and not very tall at the same time. “You hear that, Will? Inconvenient, she says. You ever been called inconvenient before?”

“Been called a lot of things,” Will said. “That’s new.”

“Hmm,” the bear-like man said. “Inconvenient. Think I like it.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Aziraphale said. “Now why don’t you run along home and tell your lovely mate-- er, wife about it.”

“Cause she’ll pull my ear off if I come home empty handed,” the man said, grinning the grin of the happily married. “But, I tell you what, you just hand us over all your gold, and we’ll call it--“

“ _What are you doing?”_ Aziraphale thundered, jumping to her feet and spinning around to face the rear of the cart.

Coming up behind her, so stealthily they’d barely made a noise, two more men froze with their hands outstretched, just shy of the heavy waxed sack in the back of the cart. Aziraphale snatched up a tree branch from the seat beside her (which hadn’t been there a moment ago) and brandished it at them.

“Hands off,” she said threateningly. “Or else I shall be forced to do something I regret.”

“And what’s that, then?” one of the men asked with a nervous flick of his eyes to the bear-like man, which Aziraphale found quite gratifying.

“Ah,” Aziraphale prevaricated, wondering how to put it. _Miracle you all a hundred miles away and earn myself a righteous ticking off from Gabriel_ wasn’t really something she should be saying to humans. But then again, if they touched that sack and the crate within, she really couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.

She adjusted her grip on the tree branch, getting ready to put a bit of divine wrath into her expression for good measure, when another man stepped forward.

 _Stepped_ was a generous way of putting it. Sauntered might have been more appropriate. And he was wearing a felted green cap but she would have recognised the fall of that red braid over his shoulder anywhere.

“Hello, angel,” he said easily.

Oh _of course_.

“Cr-- What are you-- How is this-- Is this all _your_ \-- devious work?”

Crowley tipped his head back so that she could see his eyes, glowing faintly in the shadow beneath the brim of his hat, and grinned. “Have to admit, it is. ‘S all right, lads,” he called to the others. “I know her, she’s all right.”

And that was how Aziraphale found herself being rescued from a muddy fate by a group of forest-dwelling ruffians. With surprising efficiency they used a couple of fallen branches for levers while four of them pushed and young Will guided Fredric forward, and in no time at all the cart came free with a wet slurping sound and a cheer from the group.

Safely on dry-ish land, Aziraphale (mollified that her cargo was once again safe, and somewhat calmer now that she’d had a moment to gather herself) breathed a sigh of relief.

“That was-- quite helpful of you. However can I thank you?”

Crowley grinned in a way that made her immediately want to back track.

“I believe the matter of payment was being discussed--”

Appalled, Aziraphale cut in. “And as I was telling-- um--” She waved at the bear-like man.

“Little John,” he offered.

“And as I was telling Little John over there, before I was so rudely interrupted, I don’t _have_ any gold. Do you honestly think I’d be foolish enough to travel alone without an escort with my pockets full of coin?”

“Oh, yeah-- no-- _obviously_ ,” Crowley said, with rather too much amusement for her taste, and she flushed with sudden embarrassment as she remembered that time on the Appian Way when she had done just that and Crowley had had to sweep to her rescue. “In situations like this, I believe the traditional payment is a kiss.”

The men gathered around them snickered and made _oy oy_ noises that died rather swiftly when Aziraphale directed her disapproving eye at them.

“Oh, really, Crowley,” she murmured, turning her attention back to him.

“It’s Robin, actually,” he said.

“Robin? Why?”

He gave her a look as though it should be obvious. “We’re outlaws, angel. Nobody’s using their real names here.”

Aziraphale gave him a shrewd look. “It’s because of your hair, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes. “Very clever. All right, all right, come up here, then.”

Crowley swung up easily onto the front of the cart and Aziraphale got to her feet to meet him. She knew she had lost some height upon taking a female form, but had Crowley always been so tall? She looked up at him just as his hand came to rest lightly on her neck.

“Nice wimple,” he said. “Suits you.”

She didn’t have time to respond, not even to roll her eyes, before he had leaned down to kiss her. It was far more tender and far less showy than she had expected it to be, his hand on her neck a single point of warmth that somehow spread throughout her body. The familiarity of it _ached_.

Forgetting herself, she took half a step closer, hands rising to his waist to clench the rough fabric of his tunic. Head tilted back at a greater angle than she was used to, the wimple slipped from her hair and fell behind her, landing at her heels.

“Miss me, angel?” Crowley asked an eon later, when he’d finally drawn away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she tutted, but utterly failed to keep the smile out of her voice.

*

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Aziraphale asked a little later, once their motley caravan had got underway and they had quietly confirmed each other’s pronouns. Crowley, who had convinced her to come back to his camp for a hot meal, was now sitting beside her on the cart instead of walking like the rest of them. Perks of being a ringleader, apparently. Fredric had balked initially and the seat wasn’t really big enough for two, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in her to mind. “Up to no good, I take it?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m trying out something new, actually. I call it social engineering.”

"Hmm." Aziraphale cocked her head thoughtfully. "Are euphemisms one of ours or one of yours?"

"Yours, I thought."

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale said dubiously. “How does it work, then?”

“Glad you asked,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself, grin wide and dimpled. “Hastur and the others are obsessed with artistry and craftsmanship and all that bollocks, spending years -- decades! -- chipping away at a single soul, and even then no guarantee you’ll succeed. So I got to thinking, what if you could go wide instead of deep?”

Aziraphale watched him out of the corner of her eye as he explained his new approach to stirring up discord, agitating the many more poor people against the fewer rich ones by a bit of blunt-force wealth redistribution. It didn’t sound terribly demonic in the classical sense, especially when compared to the rumours about King Henry which Aziraphale had just sort of assumed on reflex to be of hellish influence and was mildly chastened to learn her mistake. Then again, outright evil had never really been Crowley’s style. He did tend to prefer fomenting chaos and letting the humans decide how to respond. Either way, Aziraphale was clearly going to have to update her approach to thwarting if Crowley was going to go _innovating_ on her.

“And you, angel?” he asked. “Sherwood Forest isn’t exactly a prime location for good deeds.”

“I’m only passing through,” she said. “On my way to Whitby Abbey, as it happens.”

“Thought that’d been destroyed by the Normans.”

“They’re rebuilding. Oh, Crowley, it’s going to be so beautiful,” she said excitedly. “All the latest technology, no expense spared. The things the humans can do with stone these days! My dear, it’s quite incredible.”

“Not quite a pyramid, though, is it?” he said a little tetchily.

“Oh, hush,” she said. “Just because it’s a building of worship doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the ingenuity involved.”

Crowley declined to comment. “And you’re going to-- what? Bless a stone mason? Inspire a sculptor?”

Aziraphale looked down, momentarily ashamed to be doing something purely for herself. Though she hadn’t had any specific orders in the last couple of decades from Upstairs, she still felt somewhat guilty over her self-indulgence.

“Oh, well, no,” she said. “I’m hand-delivering the manuscripts the sisters of Archdale Abbey illuminated. For the new library.”

Crowley chuckled. “Books? Should’ve known that’s what you’ve got back there,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder to the back of the cart. “Not like you to resort to violence and threats.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said.

“Some things are worth making an exception for, is that it?” Crowley needled. “Crack out the old smite reflex?”

Aziraphale tried to smile. “Something like that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s eyes on the side of her face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Aziraphale thought about denying it. Thought about putting on a brave face and changing the subject and moving on. But Crowley was warm at her side, and he’d kissed her like he was glad to see her, and, if she were being honest, after so long living with humans who couldn’t possibly understand, she needed to tell _someone_. Even if he had been… well.

“Thirty years ago, I was sent with the Christian Army when they took back the Holy Land,” she said. “It was… Gabriel said it would be a bit of fun, get me some fresh air and exercise, brush up on my old sword fighting skills, that kind of thing.”

“But you don’t resort to violence,” Crowley repeated knowingly. It made her smile, a tiny, wan thing, that he should know her so well (that he should know her better than her fellow angels).

“It was awful, Crowley,” she whispered. “The worst thing I’ve ever seen. The suffering was endless, and for what?”

She waited for the sardonic rebuke, the reminder that she knew exactly what for, and that it wasn’t exactly unheard of for the glory of Heaven to be won in such a way. He never did let her look away.

Then she was reminded, he could also be kind.

“But you got through it, angel,” he said softly. As though he understood.

She closed her eyes. “Yes, by spending as much time as I could getting blind drunk and wishing you were there, and fearing you were, too.”

She breathed in sharply with the shock of how much she’d just given away. They didn’t… they didn’t admit to missing each other when they were parted, because that would be, well it would be… not a thing that they did. Aziraphale was therefore somewhat relieved that Crowley was more focussed on her other admission.

“Not my doing,” he said quietly. “If it wasn’t your side…” Aziraphale shook her head. Gabriel had had her go with them, but as far as she knew, Heaven hadn’t had a hand in instigating the conflict. Crowley continued, “Humans are always five steps ahead of us with those kinds of things.”

The melting relief at his words was so intense it took her by surprise.

“But how can they be so dreadful to each other in a world like this one? So full of, of architecture and _books._ So much beauty--”

“And sin. It’s how they were made, you know that.”

She did know that. They had to make choices, that was the whole point. She only regretted the sheer, bloody destructiveness some choices could lead to.

“Ineffable,” she murmured.

“If you say so.” They were quiet again for a while, though a little more comfortably this time. Then Crowley leaned into her side, a warm pressure against her body, and said, “Whitby Abbey, is it? You know, we’re heading north too for a little while. Why don’t you stick with us? Safety in numbers and all that.”

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I… no. I couldn’t possibly,” she said, but what she meant was, _please keep talking until I’m convinced._ Thankfully, Crowley knew her well enough to understand that as well.

*

Crowley, it seemed, had accreted a band of people about him the same way a young star accreted matter, and there were more of them (and more organised) than Aziraphale would have ever imagined. They were largely men, single, disaffected, penniless, but there were a number of women and children, too. And, to Aziraphale’s great surprise, a Franciscan Friar named Tuck.

“However did you end up travelling with outlaws, Friar?” she asked him that first night by the campfire.

He was a big man with ruddy cheeks and a tonsure that was improbably well maintained for the surroundings (who ever said a church man couldn’t succumb to vanity? Certainly not Aziraphale.)

“Same way I imagine you did, m’lady,” he replied good-naturedly.

“Oh, they tried to rob you, too?” she asked, shooting Crowley a tart look.

“Five casks of the Lord’s finest cider,” he said, nodding. “I threatened to hack them open with my axe and let it run into the undergrowth if they didn’t let me go.”

“Obviously that didn’t happen.”

“His axe was as blunt as his wits!” Little John roared, and a number of the others chimed in with laughter and friendly insults. Across the fire, Arthur a Bland nudged Will in the ribs and Aziraphale’s attention was caught for a moment by Will’s wince at the light contact. Looking a little closer, opening an ethereal eye or two, she saw that Will was a young man who’d been born in a body whose biology did not match his gender, something she understood was far more inconvenient for humans than for beings of angel stock. Funny how the Almighty did that, sometimes. Aziraphale made a mental note to have a word with him about loosening his bindings a little to ease his pain, but that would have to wait until later.

“Luckily,” Crowley said, sitting down beside Aziraphale and drawing her attention back to the conversation, “the good friar saw sense when we offered him a share in the spoils.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale muttered, unimpressed. That temptation must have been so easy even she could’ve done it.

Tuck toasted Crowley with his mug, before turning a wicked, jowly grin on Aziraphale. “We all must share our spoils.”

Aziraphale was scandalised. “Just what are you implying?” she said aghast. “I am a woman of the cloth!”

“Aye, and what manner of crime did you commit to be hiding out in a nunnery?”

There was much laughter at this, and slapping of knees, and Aziraphale bore it only with great offense.

“Forgive me, Lady Marian,” Tuck wheezed, wiping his watering eyes. Aziraphale, too annoyed to bother correcting him about her name, told him that she would not, and there was even more uproarious laughter, but worse than that, the ridiculous name stuck.

Later, once the fire had died down, Aziraphale went back to Crowley’s tent with him. They didn’t talk about it, it just seemed the natural thing to do, and either it was too dark for anyone else to notice, or they didn’t care. Either way, it afforded the only guaranteed privacy in the whole camp, in which Aziraphale could finally use the full force of her suggestive capabilities to get Crowley to miracle her clean and comfortable once more.

The tent was quite nice, all things considered. Many of the others simply bedded down by the fire for warmth, but the spring was a mild one and the tent was made of skin and lined with fur. Tucked up under their cloaks, they were quite cosy.

“So, will you come with us, angel?” Crowley asked, once their natural conversation had died down like the fire.

Rude old friars aside, she supposed it did all look rather fun, and that was something she’d been in short supply of, lately.

“Perhaps I could write it up in my reports as spreading wealth to the poor,” she said consideringly. More than one of Crowley’s men had told her a tale of their exploits this evening. She didn’t doubt there were elements of drunken braggadocio, but if even half of what they said was true... “Really, Crowley, I’m honestly amazed that you’re getting away with this Downstairs. However are you justifying yourself?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he said dismissively. “Theft, threats, law-breaking, spreading social discord.” He grinned, an expression not really visible in the dark except for the way it changed the shape of his softly-glowing eyes. “A quite extraordinary amount of drunkenness.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “That last one is hardly a sin.”

“Yeah? How’d you work that out?”

“It was one of the very first things you said to me, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Right there on the walls of Eden, if I recall. If I do it, then it can’t be wrong.”

Crowley chuckled. “Weren’t much for nuance back then, were we?”

“Neither were the humans.”

(She didn’t have to say that nuance was where humans lived, the very soul of their existence. Crowley already knew. Crowley understood.)

“So what you’re saying,” Crowley broke into the silence after a long moment. “What you’re actually saying is, we’re both going to take credit with our respective sides over what is, essentially, the same job.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “I suppose you could put it like that. It’s better than cancelling each other out, at least.”

“Oh, so you do remember what I said.” Crowley sounded amused. “I had wondered.”

“Yes, well, rather hard to forget when your adversary suggests… that.”

There was a rustle of fabric, and then Crowley’s hand was cupping her jaw, thumb stroking gently across her cheek. His skin was rougher than usual, weathered. He must be using his hands a lot at the moment. The thought and the feel of it was not unpleasant.

“Just think about it, angel,” he said softly, and then he very neatly changed the subject by leaning close enough their noses bumped, his breath brushing her lips, and whispered, “May I kiss you?”

“Isn’t that usually my line?” Aziraphale whispered back. She pulled him down the last fraction, and couldn't help smiling into the kiss.

It felt strange to be intimate in this form. Aziraphale had never been much for switching about her body the way Crowley always was, finding herself to be generally quite content the way she had first appeared on Earth. The only times she had ever presented as female before were on orders from Heaven, and then it had been fleeting, a year at most. After the Crusade, however -- after the filth and stench and often very male cruelty -- Aziraphale had been really rather eager to be shot of facial hair and masculine funk, and had embraced her female body as she never had before. And besides all that, she had practically fallen over herself to enter the abbey, reading and copying being considered an important part of a sister’s work, and living in such close quarters with women, it would’ve been impossible to do anything but go the whole hog. Nuns were generally discreet but someone would’ve noticed, eventually.

It had been a couple of decades since she’d changed, however, and she still on occasion lost track of her body’s altered dimensions, absent-mindedly bumping her breasts and hips into things, swallowing strangely around the lack of an Adam’s apple. In all honesty, there were still times when she doubted she’d really got the hang of this whole female thing. And then Crowley kissed her smooth jaw, her narrow throat, her small hands, the swell of her breasts, and oh, _then_ she started to feel more at ease in her skin. (She always had been more at home with Crowley than anyone else, but that thought, like a thousand others over the aeons, was consigned to the dusty back shelves of her brain, where she could conveniently ignore it.)

They undressed each other unhurriedly, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and Aziraphale revelled in the feel of Crowley's skin against hers, the familiar plains of his back, the slight swell of his buttocks.

“Have you ever…?” he breathed into the valley between her breasts.

“Ever what?”

“Got off, angel. Like this.” He trailed kisses down her sternum, her soft belly, pausing at the line of hair that began just below her navel.

“No,” she admitted. It was nothing against the form -- Aziraphale had always been happy to lavish attention on Crowley’s genitals no matter what configuration they took. “I haven’t… really… been in the mood. Lately.”

Crowley gave her a questioning look, but she just shrugged. ‘Lately’ was relative.

“But you are now?” he clarified.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Aziraphale warned him. Crowley let out an inelegant sound, half snort, half bark of laughter, and parted her lips delicately with his thumbs, lowering his mouth to her.

Oh god, it felt different, it felt _quite_ different. It felt wonderful. Crowley had always been able to do some unusual things with his tongue, but she had a sudden revelation that she hadn’t properly appreciated that fact before. She was so exquisitely sensitive, every tiny little flick and flutter sent her hips jerking crazily, somehow simultaneously trying to get closer and further away from the intense sensation. Crowley hummed and made gentling noises and even that -- the deep, rich vibration pushed into her flesh -- sent pleasure spiraling through her.

He seemed to spend an age at it, hours maybe, until she was wet and aching and writhing on his tongue. Then he stopped and knelt up and asked her what she wanted, and she let her knees fall apart and told him to penetrate her. His cock was hard, straining and flushed against his belly, and he closed his eyes for a moment, chest rising and falling, before crawling up her body until his hips were cradled in the vee of her legs, kissing her hungrily while he fumbled with coordinating everything lower down. And then Aziraphale felt the pressure at her opening. It was a sensation not unlike the one she got in her male form when Crowley had been fingering her and she was slick and well prepared. Then with slow, tiny thrusts, Crowley worked his way in. There was stretching, entirely pleasurable, and then Crowley reached down to massage her clitoris with one tender fingertip, and then it felt beyond pleasurable.

“Oh, Crowley,” she whined. “Oh, _God,_ I’m going to-- I’m going to-- Oh God don’t stop!”

He touched her temple with his free hand, brushing a sweaty curl away, and the pleasure wound tight and crested, her body clenching at Crowley’s in great, rolling waves until her muscles turned to water and her legs and arms fell limply into the furs.

“Good heavens,” she murmured. “That’s different, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s grin was almost wild. He raised himself up a little, though still within her body, still hard, and asked her, “Want to try it again?”

“Whatever do you-- _ahh!”_ she gasped desperately as Crowley gave one hard, unexpected thrust. In her male form, she would be overly-sensitive to the point of discomfort right now, especially after the _lengthy_ stimulation that led to her release, but in her female form, she felt as though she could just… keep going. Indefinitely. It was… she shuddered in delight. It was quite a thought.

“Good?” Crowley asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, do that again,” she said, spurred on to find the energy to wrap her legs around his waist again. He slid his fingers between her own and braced them above her head. Then he took her hard and a little wild (wildly erotic), pounding her into the furs.

Crowley had told her of fireworks, once, on his return from a visit to China. The bangs and the bursts of colour popping into life, the way the noise of it shook your very organs inside your ribs, and the way the light scored your eyes for minutes afterwards. Aziraphale had never seen a firework, but that was exactly what was going off beneath her skin right now. Crowley was panting hotly against her cheek and they were both sweating, and her breasts were jiggling absurdly against his chest, and pleasure was bursting out of her at the seams.

Hands pinned, she was happy to pretend to be helpless, and conscious again in a very appreciative way of how much more substantial Crowley’s narrow lines and sharp edges seemed when she was female. The weight of him on top of her, the frantic movement of his hips, was really rather fantastic.

“Crowley, kiss me,” she panted, following it up with a nip of teeth to his ear that made him groan. God, she loved that sound.

“So-- bloody-- demanding,” he said, but still raised his head to kiss her deeply, messily, exactly as she wanted. “Is this good?” he asked between gusting breaths. “I’m close. Is this-- _ah_ \-- is this good for you?”

“Nnn,” she keened. It was beyond good, and she had passed the point of words. Freeing a hand from Crowley’s grip she worked it in between their bodies, searching for her clitoris. Crowley shifted back to accommodate her, sitting on his heels and lifting her knees over his shoulders, continuing to fuck her half-blind.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Aziraphale gasped in rhythm as she probed herself clumsily. She had never really explored her female genitals beyond the necessary, and right now everything was slippery and swollen and strange, but then she found it, that tight little knot of wonder, and collapsed back in relief as she rubbed herself with one hand, and reached for a breast with the other. Crowley’s face was a picture, flushed, mouth open and soft with lust. His hips stuttered when he saw her touching herself and she watched him fighting back his own climax to allow her to find hers first. The sight of his frantic restraint was all she needed, in the end. Crying out, her spine arched as her pleasure crested. Crowley thrust a couple of more times, prolonging the pleasure in a manner that stole her breath away, before collapsing into his own orgasm with a desperate cry.

“Come here,” she said, when they had both come down sufficiently to speak again. Wordlessly, Crowley withdrew, sending another tight little shiver of delight down to Aziraphale’s toes, before flopping bonelessly beside her on the furs.

“Good Lord, Crowley,” she said, staring unseeing at the ceiling of the tent. “Why did you never tell me?”

Crowley laughed a little dazedly. “I assumed you already knew.”

“Oh. Well. I didn’t. But I’m certainly glad I do now.” She turned her head to smile at him. “Thank you.”

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes, but she thought it was pretty good natured, all things considered. “Besides, given whose name you were calling, not sure I’m the one you should be thanking.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Aziraphale,” he said very seriously. “You take Her name in vain so often and so enthusiastically I wouldn’t be surprised if She rode down on a cloud one day to see what all the fuss is about.”

Aziraphale let out a scandalised gasp. “Oh, do be quiet.”

“Surprised you’ve never asked for a threesome, to be honest,” he continued blithely. “What with this mummy kink of yours.”

“ _Crowley!_ ”

She rolled over with the express purpose of glaring her displeasure at him, only to find they were nose to nose, and the smile Crowley was giving her was soft and very fond.

“That’s more like it,” he said, but it came out less of a joke and more of an admission. Of what, she wasn’t sure, but the moment was suddenly heavy with meaning. He reached out and touched her hair, still mostly plaited down her bare back, but coming loose in tendrils around her face. He wound one of the curls around his finger before letting it slip away again.

“I missed you too, you know,” he said quietly. And then his hand was gone, and not long after, he was asleep.

Aziraphale slept, too. She didn’t usually, it was such a waste of time, but in these circumstances there was little else to do. The tent walls were thick enough to block out sufficient light from the fire to read by, but too thin to miracle something up without being seen, and besides all that, her reading material was secured inside a chest, inside a crate, inside a waxed sack. So sleeping really was the only way to while away the time until dawn.

She woke at first light, ready to get up and be productive (even if all that meant was ‘check on breakfast’) only to find herself pinned to the bedding by Crowley’s sprawling limbs, one arm around her waist, one leg slung over both of hers, his face buried in the back of her neck, breath warm and even. She lifted her hand and fit her fingers between the knuckles of the hand that was resting lax across her stomach. Such familiar crests and valleys, and yet the span of them against her hand so different.

Crowley was dead to the world, heavy and unmoving. She could easily slip out now without disturbing him. She decided to stay, nonetheless.

*

Going north through the forest with Crowley’s band wasn’t significantly slower than travelling by herself, Aziraphale found, especially given Fredric’s propensity to refuse to move any faster than a sedate amble. They would make good time and sleep by the side of the road for a handful of days, before stopping to pitch a more substantial camp for another couple, setting traps and tending to the other myriad tasks that kept a small travelling community going. Plus, it was _infinitely_ more interesting. Everyone had a story to tell and Aziraphale did so love stories.

Really, once you got past the rough manners, most of them weren’t so bad. Little John’s wife, Athel, had rather forcefully taken Aziraphale under her wing, and now Aziraphale shared jobs and responsibilities with the other women when they stopped to set up camp, but it wasn’t awful -- she would much rather chop root vegetables and stir a cookpot than traipse through the woods setting traps and hunting for game (even if a part of her itched to hand out a lesson or two in the correct use of weaponry, especially to Crowley, who mostly just aimed in vaguely the right direction and used a miracle to land his shot. It was a matter of artistry.)

There was talk as they went about their tasks, though. Not unpleasant in and of itself, except that it so often turned to Aziraphale herself. The women were very curious about her and her relationship to Crowley.

“You aren’t married?” young Lucy asked in shock after one such interrogation.

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said, confused. “Why would we be?”

“But you share Robin’s tent, Lady Marian,” Gerty said. They, like everyone else, had taken up on Friar Tuck’s version of her name, and she hadn’t the heart to correct them at this point. “Isn’t that a bit improper? You know, for a lady like you.”

“ _Hur_ ,” said Athel, with a sort of mountainous jollity. “Never mind that, you nosy girls. You’ll find out soon enough for yourselves.”

There was some tittering and a knowing glance or two from the older women, but the subject obligingly changed to Gerty’s latest charcoal sketches.

But later, Athel leaned close to Aziraphale and said quietly, “Far be it from me to tell others how to live their lives, but your Robin worships the very ground you walk on, anyone can see that.”

Mouth hanging open like a landed fish, Aziraphale couldn’t think of a single thing to say, aside from a rather weak, “A little blasphemous, don’t you think?” To which Athel laughed, clapped her on the back with a hand like a paddle, and got right back to work.

*

“What the devil are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, aghast.

It was a cool morning, the _pit-pit_ of rain audible on the tent skins, and Crowley seemed to have woken first for once. She’d found him with his back to her, sitting cross-legged, shoulders _heaving_ with suppressed glee as he leafed through what she realised with mounting affront was her very sacred, very fragile, very _sealed_ chest of quires and codices.

“Aziraphale,” he said, voice wavering, barely contained. “What’s with all the snails?”

Distracted from her wrath, she crawled up behind him and peered over his quivering shoulder. “The what?”

“The-- the snails. Illuminations are beautiful, never seen better, but why-- why snails?”

“Ah,” she said. “You know, all God’s creatures, great and small. One has to show one’s appreciation and all that.”

“You did draw these, right?”

“Much of it is my work, yes.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said again. “Why did you draw a hare riding a snail? And is that--” a loud splutter of laughter burst out-- “is that a _crucifix_ on its shield?”

“Oh, well, one has to pay homage to one’s superiors now and again,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Wait, that’s supposed to be _Gabriel_?”

“Who else?”

Crowley abruptly lost the fight and keeled over, laughing so hard his eyes began to water. It was infectious, but Aziraphale was still nominally annoyed and unwilling to let him get away with it so easily, even if she was helplessly delighted by his delight, and pursed her lips as she looked down at him.

“You,” Crowley said between breaths, with a look of admiration, “are a bit of a bastard, you know that, Aziraphale?”

“How dare you,” she said, but finally a small smile broke through. In truth, her heart had not been full of happiness and light when she had painted that particular manuscript, but it was rather nice to have the inherent absurdity appreciated after the fact.

Her smile faded a little as she once again took in the broken wax seal on the chest, the straw leaking from the crate, the waxed sack tossed to one side. The manuscripts were delicate and would not survive being exposed to this kind of weather. But of course Crowley couldn’t resist the temptation of a thrice-locked box.

“Oh well, at least now you’ve opened them I’ve got something to read at night,” she said with a forebearing sigh.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, finally mastering his amusement. “I wasn’t going to leave them open to the elements.”

“Oh, really?” she said, brightening.

Aziraphale didn’t really understand why (oh she did, she did; some distant, well-guarded part of her did) but Crowley’s expression softened like butter in the sun, and he sat back up, and buried a hand in her hair, and kissed her chastely on the cheek.

*

“So what did you think?” Will Scarlet asked one hazy, grey afternoon, as Aziraphale led him a little way into the woods for some privacy.

She’d tried sitting him by the campfire at first, but he’d turned so white she’d worried he had a second wound somewhere and was bleeding far more heavily than she’d realised.

As it happened, he merely didn’t want to have his clothing removed where others might see his body, although she supposed it wasn’t so ‘merely’ where humans were concerned. Their sense of outrage could be so miscalibrated sometimes.

“Here, this will do nicely,” she said, guiding Will to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree. “Now let me just...” She reached for his shirt.

“Don’t!” Will all but shouted, and Aziraphale withdrew her hands immediately.

“Dear boy,” she said gently. “You have an arrow sticking out of your shoulder. You must let me treat it.”

“I don’t see why Robin can’t-- he usually--”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, understanding. Of course someone like Will would be drawn to Crowley. This was not the first time she’d seen it happen. That he had apparently healed Will before was interesting, though -- an unprovoked good deed. No, not just a ‘deed’; she’d seen plenty of that over the millennia if she were to be completely honest with herself, especially where children were concerned (and Will was barely out of childhood). An unprovoked good miracle, then. Theoretically she’d presumed he was capable, or else he would never have suggested this little job-sharing arrangement he seemed so keen on, but to be presented with the evidence of it...

“Unfortunately,” she continued, shaking that thought off for now, “Robin appears to have swanned off to the local village to enjoy his ill-gotten gains, but I assure you, I have plenty of experience in the healing arts.”

“‘S not that,” Will said softly, hands clenching and unclenching on his knees.

Aziraphale finally caught on. “Oh. _Oh._ That.” Of course, he couldn’t comprehend that she wasn’t human herself, and didn’t subscribe to those kinds of delineations. “I already know, dear.”

“He _told_ you? Who else knows?”

“No no no,” she rushed to reassure him. “I simply recognise the signs.” When he still looked worried, an idea struck her. “If you would permit me to confide in you, I myself am, in fact, usually a man. It’s only recently I’ve been living as a woman.”

Will’s eyes grew big in his narrow face. Aziraphale nodded kindly.

“So you see,” she said. “Nothing to be afraid of.” She reached again for his shirt, slowly so as not to surprise him. “May I?” He nodded, and let her cut it off him with a small paring knife. Then she waited patiently for him to recover from the instinctive jerk to cover his bound chest with his good arm, and lower it again with another little nod for her to proceed.

“You never answered my question,” he said a few moments later as Aziraphale was assessing the wound.

“Hm?”

The arrowhead had struck bone and so had not penetrated deeply enough to require pushing through to the other side. Heaven above, how she hated that. No, a quick removal, a firm bandage, and a little suggestion to the wound that it neither bleed too much nor get infected, that should do it.

“About what you thought, of earlier.”

Aziraphale glanced up. The poor boy was sweating, the anticipation of the removal probably worse than the existing pain.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She thought back to the work of the morning, the roadside hold up of a travelling lord and his retinue. Crowley had had his band relieve the man of his coin purse and some other belongings while they watched together from the sidelines, hidden by the trees. It was quick, and efficient, and she had been impressed, despite herself. And Crowley’s carefree, mischief-making grin as he strutted out at the last possible moment to give his name and bow sarcastically to the lord... hmm, that had been very…

She blinked.

“I would’ve preferred no one got hurt. Ready?” She took the arrow shaft in both hands. “On three.”

Will groaned as she pulled it loose, and once it was done, let his forehead fall to her shoulder, panting shallowly. She reached up a little dubiously to pat his good shoulder, wondering if he required some kind of… mothering. Or something. Crowley was always better at this kind of thing. But before she could decide on whether to follow through, Will raised himself back up with a gritty laugh, and Aziraphale got to work bandaging him up.

“You’re selling him short, you know,” Will said, a vain attempt to hide his grunt of pain as Aziraphale applied the necessary pressure.

“Who?”

“Robin. He doesn’t… argh… he doesn’t take the coin to the villages to have a good time.”

“No, well, I realise you all give a portion back to the--”

“It’s not like that,” Will said, shaking his head. “He gives it all away. We all do.”

Aziraphale fumbled the bandage.

_I gave it away._

_You what?_

“He what?” She straightened up in surprise. “But he’s a… I mean, then how do you…? Why would he…?”

Will shrugged. “People give us what they can spare, out of gratitude. Vegetables, mostly, since we don’t farm out here.” He flashed a grin. “Ale, when we’re lucky. The rest we get through hunting and the like.” He looked up at her, eyes brimming with earnestness. “He might be an outlaw, m’lady, but Robin’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Aziraphale said distantly.

She let Will talk as she finished up, extending her little healing blessing to the ache in his ribs, and offered him an item of her own clothing to replace the blood-stained binding, something woven with a little more give.

*

By the time Aziraphale got Will settled back at the camp, the smaller group of men Crowley had taken to the village were slowly trickling back. Crowley’s expression, when she caught sight of it, was pained and a touch ill-tempered. She wondered briefly if something had gone wrong, before realising that she recognised it, and that it was the way he always looked whenever she tried to thank him. It struck her that he must have endured a great deal of thanks just now, if what Will said was true.

She didn’t have any reason to believe it wasn’t.

It was lovely, really, to go from fearing he’d had a hand in the brutality of the Crusades to, well, this. Not that she would say as much to him (unless she particularly wanted to rile him up, which certainly had its charms), but she could think it as much as she liked. Deep down, he really could be quite a nice person.

The group’s return bought numerous little goodies with it -- a handful of apples and carrots, two loaves of bread, a sack of potatoes. Aziraphale went with Athel and the others to help prepare a celebratory meal, and used another little miracle to make sure there was enough to go around.

It was a good afternoon, even she could admit it, and it ran seamlessly into a good evening. The lord they had robbed (well, ‘they’ in the loosest sense, since Aziraphale had very pointedly not taken part) had given up four casks of ale along with his gold, and the whole camp made free with that as well.

Friar Tuck complimented the stew, and so Aziraphale decided to forgive him, and before long they were getting steadily drunk together, reminiscing happily about meals gone by. And Crowley was… Crowley was ever present and yet nowhere to be seen. Present in the way the others spoke of him, the neatness and organisation of the camp, the very food and drink they were enjoying, and yet Aziraphale caught only glimpses of a red plait spilling down from beneath a jauntily-angled hat amid the celebrations.

Will and Little John had pulled out a drum and flute respectively and were entertaining the camp by the time Crowley slipped onto the log beside Aziraphale without a single word.

“There you are,” she said, warm and jolly with drink. “Where on Earth have you been, my dear?”

“Nowhere,” Crowley muttered. “Right here. You’ve been having a nice time.” It wasn’t a question. Aziraphale peered at him, his sulky slouch, the testy cant of his mouth, and laughed.

“You’re not jealous.”

“Uhhh,” he stumbled. “You’re right, I’m not.”

“Oh you are!” she crowed. “How very--”

“Do not-- finish that sentence.” He waved a finger at her in warning, eyes narrowing under the brim of his hat. “If I hear one more sodding word of praise today…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, making a mocking show of stifling her mirth.

“I’m a _demon_ ,” he hissed, low enough that only Aziraphale would hear. “Doing bad, demonic work. Stealing and--” he waved at the handful of people who had started a merry jig on the far side of the fire. “Spreading debauchery.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, looking at the happy faces. “Practically Roman.”

Crowley growled in irritation, unfolding himself from her side to stride back into the night, swiping a mug of ale as he went.

“Oh, that’s a bad case if ever I saw one,” Tuck said from her other side. Aziraphale looked over to where he was shaking his head sadly, jowls aquiver.

“Of what?” she snorted. “Sour-- sour grain?” she laughed at her own joke. And then, possibly because she was drunk, “This whole setup is really very bemusing. He’s never particularly sought out or enjoyed receiving gratitude. Why-- why do this to himself?”

“Now there I think you’re wrong, begging my lady’s pardon,” Tuck said somberly. “Them’s who squirm under the light of praise is often who needs it most.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, taken aback. She blinked a couple of times before glancing down into her mug, still half-full. “More ale?”

“Lady Marian,” Tuck said, ignoring her utterly. “Robin is absolutely smitten with you. He’s got it so bad these old eyes can see it even in this poor light.”

“Ha ha,” Aziraphale said, her smile freezing. “Oh, look at that, I should, uh, go and, um, yes.”

She didn’t run away. That would imply there was something to run _from_. She simply… departed the conversation. Which had most definitely run its course. There you had it.

The only problem was, it was pitch black in the middle of the woods, and she couldn’t use a miracle to light her way: there was nowhere else to go except their tent. And inside it, quiet and still where the rest of the camp was raucous and dancing, was Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed, hesitating.

The good thing about an association that spanned five millennia, however, was that words weren’t always necessary.

Silently, Aziraphale stooped as she entered, and knelt down behind Crowley. His back tensed a little as she laid her hands on his shoulders, but relaxed a moment later as she reached for his plait and untied the strip of fabric holding it in place. As she loosened the strands, he took his hat off, turning his head slightly in her direction but stopping short of making eye-contact. And then he let his head fall forward in silent enjoyment as Aziraphale gently finger-combed his hair.

It was smooth and silky soft by the time she stopped some time later, far easier and more pleasant to deal with than her own wavy mess.

“You want me to…?” Crowley asked, gesturing at her untidy braid, curls coming free about her face. He looked drowsy and loose-limbed, ready to flop back onto the furs at a moment’s notice and go straight to sleep.

“In the morning, I think,” she said, and lay down on her side of the tent, arm held away from her body in invitation. Crowley took it without further conversation, sliding to her side and resting his head on her shoulder. She stroked his hair one-handed as he quickly fell asleep, and stared up and away, drunk enough to be uncomplicated in her contentment.

Perhaps an hour or two later, as she shifted her position slightly, her head came against something unpleasantly hard. Seeing as all of Crowley’s boney angles were on her other side, she reached a curious hand up, and found a book. A beautiful one, too, bound and covered in what felt like tooled leather and gold leaf. Wherever had that appeared from?

She spent an embarrassed minute assuming she’d accidentally miracled it up from somewhere, before the more logical explanation hit her.

“Crowley,” she whispered, breathing the words across his forehead. “Thank you, my dear.”

Luckily for them both, he was dead asleep, and unable to be made even more grumpy by her words.

Quietly, with as much finesse as she could manage, Aziraphale gestured and said, “Let there be… a really small light.”

The night was spent reading, with Crowley’s breath a warm, regular rhythm against her neck.

*

They stopped again on the road north to make camp for a few days in a clearing just south of Nottingham. It was a beautiful place. Mist rose from the wild meadow in the morning, slowly burning off as the sun climbed the sky so that the colours of the grass and flowers seemed to intensify as the day wore on. It reminded her of Eden, the way everything had looked so vivid after that first rain, and that strange, small emptiness inside her ribcage that the humans wouldn’t ever be able to enjoy it again. (What she hadn’t known then, but would come to realise later, was that there were tiny pieces of Eden everywhere, if one knew how to look.)

That day, Aziraphale rose early with the hunting party, sitting on a log and enjoying the quiet morning bustle around the fire while Crowley slept on in the tent. She fed and groomed Fredric, did some mending, and chased the children away from the big cookpot that was steaming away on hot embers at the edge of the campfire. And in the afternoon, when it was quiet and still and there was nothing left to occupy her time, she went into the meadow to pick flowers, enjoying the smell of crushed grass beneath her feet, and the way the light slanted through the surrounding trees.

She thought she caught flashes of red hair out of the corner of her eye, almost the same colour as the sunlight shining through her closed eyelids, but it was gone again whenever she looked over. In the late afternoon the light became almost watery, and Aziraphale stopped, and simply watched, taking it in, the simple pleasure of resting her eyes on something beautiful, the visual feast of it. And this time when she glanced over, Crowley really was there, looking at her in the same sort of way. She blushed and turned away, and then looked back with a smile she hoped was inviting. It must have worked because a minute or so later Crowley came up behind her and bent to her ear.

“What a charming picture you make, angel. Positively maidenly.”

She laughed dismissively as she turned to meet his eyes, expecting a smirk or a mockingly raised eyebrow, and instead found an expression so soft her own knees tried to melt in sympathy. What was it Friar Tuck had said? That Crowley was smitten? She’d brushed it off then but it was exactly how he looked now. She didn’t want to think about it, but oh, how it made her ache. It must be something beyond comprehension, and so she didn’t try, simply leaning back into him and enjoying the moment as unthinkingly as she could.

Crowley’s body was warm at her back, and after a moment, he put his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek, her neck. Aziraphale let her eyes flutter closed and open, closed again, the meadow, the flowers, the feel of Crowley’s mouth on her skin, the blue of the sky, the warmth of his breath, a wonderful mixing of pleasure for the senses.

“It’s beautiful here,” she said.

“Yes,” Crowley replied, but she could feel that he was looking at her, and Aziraphale hoped she wouldn’t blush again. Honestly, she had never been quite the same since reading all those Welsh romances that had sprung up after Arthur’s reign, but it was never so embarrassing as when she was with Crowley. Who kissed her cheek again before reaching up to cup the other side of her face, turning it towards him so that he could kiss her mouth.

It was tender, a simple press of lips, and might even have been chaste if his fingertips hadn’t found their way to the tops of her breasts to make teasing, maddening little circles on her skin. Sudden heat bloomed and she made an involuntary little sound at the back of her throat, the flowers she had picked falling from her hand as she reached up to untie the bow at the top of her laced bodice. Crowley obligingly pushed his hand beneath her chemise to cup her breast, roll the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale moaned and sought Crowley’s tongue with her own.

Wordlessly, they fell into the long grass together, Crowley a pleasant weight on top of her as they kissed and touched. When he drew away to kiss down her neck, there was nothing but the blue sky above, framed with rising stalks of grass that rustled and moved with the light breeze, and she came that way, staring up at the sky, Crowley’s mouth at her breast and his hand up her skirts.

Flushed and dishevelled, she unlaced his breeches and took him into her mouth until he was cursing and pleading, hands wrapped in her hair, and afterwards they undressed completely and did it again.

  


Time could disappear sometimes. It had happened to Aziraphale a lot at the convent while working on her illuminations, and in Sumeria getting absorbed in a stack of tablets and only surfacing days later, and in Greece with their endless scrolls. Beings like her and Crowley, they weren’t really designed to exist in time, that was the problem. Oh, she was pretty used to it by now, after five thousand years of experience, but there was still something about it that wasn’t… her natural habitat. And sometimes, being with Crowley could bring it out in her, too. Which was to say that when they started making love, it was late afternoon, and when Aziraphale was finally sated, the sky was dark as tar and sprayed with stars.

“We should get back,” she said reluctantly. “I’m quite certain we’ve missed dinner. They’ll be sending out search parties for us.”

Crowley smirked. “Worked up an appetite, have you?”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“I’ll sort it,” Crowley said. “There’ll be a bowl of something _scrummy_ waiting for you when we get back.” He kissed the soft give of her belly, before slowly working his way up to the full undersides of her breasts, a soft brush of his lips to each over-sensitive nipple. She shivered, and Crowley reached almost thoughtlessly for his deep green tunic, draping it over her one-handed as he grazed kisses up her throat, her lips, her nose, her eyelids. “And don’t worry,” he added off-handedly as he finally settled into the grass beside her. “No one’s going to come looking for us, either.”

She hummed appreciatively, still gazing at the sky. Crowley was close and warm, her body felt limp and blissful, and she wasn’t really ready to go back just yet.

“Tell me about the stars, Crowley,” she murmured instead. He had offered, once. This seemed like the time to accept.

“I’ll tell you, angel,” he said, his tone not-quite grave, but unsmiling nonetheless. “God created the universe in heat and light, and then She created the angels to weave it. We took the light and moulded it in our hands, pressed it into protons and neutrons, tiny buzzing electrons, and then we pressed those together, too...”

*

Things were very bad in Nottingham. The two of them had ridden into town in disguise on Aziraphale’s little pony-drawn cart (Fredric protesting once again at Crowley’s presence until Crowley had hissed at him, and Aziraphale had had to gently persuade the poor old boy to cooperate), on the pretense of visiting the market. They had found a crowd all right, but no stalls or merchants.

“More of a mob, really,” Crowley said thoughtfully. He was wearing married-women’s clothes, with a long veil that hung over his eyes.

“Whatever are they doing, though?” Aziraphale replied. The people were unnaturally quiet for a crowd that size, just a low hubbub of mutters and whispers, none of the clamour one might expect in a busy city street.

As they watched, the crowd parted, and three men in leather and mail strode through, approaching the door of one of the dwellings that lined the street. There was some excitement from inside, the murmuring of the crowd became louder, and a minute or so later a middle-aged man was dragged out onto the street and roughly manhandled away by two of the armoured men. The third was occupied in holding back a woman, who was crying and clearly in great distress. In the doorway, Aziraphale could see a huddle of small, scared faces.

The sharp sound of Crowley whistling made Aziraphale jump, but before she could chastise him or demand an explanation, a rather grubby looking child sidled over to them.

Crowley flicked him a coin, gestured at the fracas up ahead with his chin, and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t pay his taxes, m’lady,” the boy said nervously.

“Didn’t or couldn’t?” Aziraphale asked.

“‘S all the same as far as the sheriff’s concerned,” the boy said. Aziraphale opened her mouth to ask about this sheriff, but the boy had already scampered off.

She looked again at the crowd. The people were thin, stooped, their clothing patched and their cheeks hollow.

“The Sheriff of Nottingham,” Crowley mused, as the man who’d been arrested was driven away in the back of an iron-barred wagon. “Sounds like a man who could benefit from a bit of messing-with.”

When Aziraphale turned to look at him, he had the beginnings of that mischievous grin on his face, one dimple peeking out.

“What d’you think, angel?”

Aziraphale gave him an agonised look. She really didn’t want to be involved in whatever havoc Crowley was cooking up, and yet, bringing prosperity to the poor and hope to the disenfranchised was surely the very definition of her job.

“I have to get to Whitby. My manuscripts.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. But you know, word is there’s going to be an archery competition, big pot of gold to the winner. He’s probably raised their taxes to pay for it.”

Aziraphale groaned. Returning that money to its rightful owners would indeed be very satisfying, but: “And how, exactly, are _you_ going to win an archery competition? It’s one thing to use a miracle in the forest, but in the middle of a field someone will notice.”

Crowley’s grin broadened. “Are you offering to teach me?”

“I, well.” Aziraphale looked away, then back at Crowley. “Someone really should.”

And perhaps it would be a good opportunity to test out this arrangement idea of Crowley’s. Two birds with one stone, as it were.

“Do you want me to persuade you, angel?” Crowley murmured, leaning close.

“I suppose I could stay a little while longer,” Aziraphale said, without very much persuading at all.

*

**Some Time Later**

“Who are you?”

Aziraphale smiled sweetly at the bored young monk manning the entrance to the domestic buildings.

“Sister Marian, of Archdale Abbey. Abbess Isolda sent word, I believe. I’ve brought codices for your new library.”

He scratched the wisps of hair on his chin disinterestedly as he opened up a ledger. “Sister who?”

“Oh, uh— Mariam,” she corrected herself.

She watched the young monk’s eyes as he scanned down the page, then again more slowly, using his finger to track the lines. Then again on the previous page. And on the one before that. “Mariam... You were… you were expected here two years ago.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, absorbing that. “Well.” She touched her hair, only to realise it was tucked away under her wimple once more. Her smile was small on the outside, but inside it was huge. Windswept, well-tumbled, and a little bit smug. “I suppose I took the scenic route.”


	5. 4 - Imbalance

_**~Interlude~** _

It doesn’t last, though. It can’t.

_Why not? (If you don’t rock the boat, if you’re careful, surely nothing needs to change.)_

All good things, angel, you know what they say. The star runs out of hydrogen, converts it all to helium, so there’s nothing left to burn. It’s like letting go of the rope in that tug of war. Gravity wins out, and hard. The star collapses in on itself, heats up again, until suddenly it’s hot enough to start fusing helium.

_Oh, a daring rescue? (Tell me, tell me there’s a hero at the eleventh hour. Tell me there’s a safe way to proceed.)_

Not... exactly. Not precisely, no. ‘Cause the same thing happens all over again -- the helium runs out, gravity wins, the star collapses and heats up until it’s hot enough to start burning the next biggest element. And so on and so forth. It just sort of wobbles about like that, expanding and contracting, clinging on desperately to life, until it’s burned through everything it can.

_It sounds positively awful._

Perhaps, in a way. There’s something beautiful to it, too, though. Symphonic, almost. The layers of elements that build up like tree rings, the way it flings out its coronal envelope while the core is slowly collapsing, like a robin puffing up its chest feathers. Red giants, the humans’ll call them, and they’re magnificent.

_But it’s dying._

No, I know, but-- this stage is important, because this is where the complex elements come from. Iron for blood, oxygen for air, carbon for-- everything. You can’t have life without this stage, angel. The star has to start to die for everything else to begin.

**Chapter 4: Imbalance**

**1653 A.D.**

Wintery sunlight slanted in weakly through the small windows of the London publishing house. Outside, the street was noisy with commerce and the sound of horseshoes on cobblestones. Inside, it was cold enough that Aziraphale’s breath formed little white puffs when he spoke, and he couldn’t help but spare a thought for the people who had to work here in these conditions.

He tried to smile convincingly at Master Scaggs, though given the way his heart was nervously skipping, it would be no surprise if he hadn’t succeeded. Luckily, it appeared Scaggs was not in the habit of being smiled at by a Woman of Status (or, more likely, any woman).

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale said. “My dear brother has spoken so highly of your, ah, acquisitional skills. I should dearly love to see it.”

“Anything for a fine lady such as yourself,” Scaggs smiled unctuously. “Be right back, Miss Ziraphale.”

Aziraphale brushed himself down anxiously while Scaggs went out the back. The _click-clack_ of type-setting could be heard momentarily as the door swung open, a brief, high counterpoint to the ever-present thump of the printing press. His disguise had been a decidedly last minute decision, though the whole venture was rather opportunistic if he were to be honest with himself. He hadn’t worn a female form since leaving Whitby Abbey in the early 1140s, but Master Scaggs was all too familiar with the nice Mr. A. Ziraphale who lived a few doors down and was so helpful with the translations, so needs must, and those needs had invented a sister.

The new women’s fashions were quite the experience. Ruffs were apparently unfashionable for both men and women nowadays, which he’d been quite sorry to hear, especially since he was now going to have to update his wardrobe _again_. No, these days it was all lacy collars, stays that laced up the back (terribly uncomfortable, did some very strange things to his breasts), and rather an amazing number of petticoats. But at least this way, his human male persona would be above suspicion.

Aziraphale loved the beautiful brocaded fabric in palest, pearly pink shot through with gold, but there was, it had to be said, an excess of sleeves. It was hard to be subtle in such an outfit, and had made sneaking in quite difficult. To Aziraphale’s displeasure he’d been discovered rather quickly. Luckily, though, neither of Messrs Bilton or Scaggs thought very highly of female intelligence, and Scaggs had simply escorted Aziraphale out to the front of the shop with a condescending reprimand to be more careful and look where he was going. It was all very trying, but Aziraphale had had plenty of practise thinking on his feet in tricky situations over the years (moreso recently than ever) and he’d quickly come up with a plan B.

It wasn’t necessarily a _good_ plan B, but it would have to do.

There was another spill of noise as the door to the back opened again, and Scaggs oozed his way over, a small paper volume held in his outstretched hands.

“Ahh,” said Aziraphale appreciatively, reaching to take it.

Scaggs drew his hands back quickly. “Now now, Miss. Are you sure you have your brother’s permission to view the item? I’ve heard things about what literature can do to the female constitution.”

Aziraphale, already on edge, abruptly reached the end of his patience.

“Oh, give it here,” he snapped, and with a click of his fingers, Master Scaggs’ expression turned vague and his hands pliant when Aziraphale relieved him of the quarto.

Aziraphale looked down at the paper cover, running his fingers delicately over the print. This had been Bill’s first play as a young man, Aziraphale sent to bless him with divine inspiration. Rather a mixed outcome, as he remembered. Nobody could elevate the human heart like Bill Shakespeare, but Heaven hadn’t been too keen on all the dick jokes.

“The Comedie of Robin Hoode, or, The Forest of Sherwoode,” Aziraphale read, his stomach fizzing strangely. The play had been lost for decades. As far as anyone knew, this was the only remaining copy, and Aziraphale… well, it wasn’t even a question. Despite the copious twinges of guilt, he simply had to have it. Gabriel and his admonishments of Aziraphale’s bad Earthly habits could… could go away. Aziraphale needed this quarto, and that was that.

“Let’s get you home, where you belong,” he said to the book.

Turning to leave, Aziraphale glanced back at Scaggs. “You will wake, having had a-- a dream about something you enjoy,” he said. “Sadly, you will realise you’ve lost the quarto, but there’s nothing to be done about it, chin up and all that. Oh, and light a fire for your employees, it’s freezing in here.”

And with a swish of skirts, Aziraphale tucked the little book into one of his pockets and left the premises.

*

Back in his apartments a few doors down, Aziraphale was still poring over the play when his front door burst open. He flinched, guiltily attempting to stuff it back into his pocket, before recognising the unhurried sound of Crowley’s sauntering gait and relaxing again. (For the most part. Instinct had him keep the book largely hidden in the brocade folds of his skirt, for some reason.)

“What are you doing here?” he asked, fingering the edges of the book distractedly as Crowley came round the corner to enter the reading room. She was also sporting female attire today, to go with the female appearance she had been favouring in the last decade or so.

“A good morning to you, too, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale tsked. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

 _Aziraphale was standing on the clifftops beside Whitby Abbey, taking in the view of the cove and the sea beyond, and enjoying the cold sea air. The tinkling sound of an ethereal miracle was the only warning he got before Gabriel was suddenly_ there _, standing in midair over a hundred yard drop into frigid water, hair and clothing undisturbed by the wind._

_“The thing is, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “What happened in Nottingham -- not exactly by the book, was it?”_

_“You aren’t happy with my work?” Aziraphale asked. “All that healing? All that spreading of hope?”_

_“Yes, but here’s the thing you aren’t getting,” Gabriel said with exaggerated patience. “Someone born in a straw-roofed cottage in the middle of a pile of mud actually has more opportunities to be righteous than someone born into comfort and plenty. They’ve got to_ strive. _” He said this last while making an enthusiastic fist with one hand._

_“I… I see,” Aziraphale said, not seeing at all._

_“Yes,” Gabriel said, conspiratorial now. “Ineffable, isn’t it?”_

_“Very.”_

_“And you going about miracling things better for people on such a large scale is, as I’m sure you now see, acting contrary to our aims.”_

_“Ah, of course. Th-thank you for the insight.”_

_“That’s what I’m here for. Anyway, it’s been decided in light of all this that you need a little more oversight from Above. You’re not in trouble! Everyone’s still very impressed with your work during the Crusade. I’ll just be popping down now and again to give you more support.”_

_“Oh, I, ah, how… wonderful.”_

_“Isn’t it!” he said with a face-scrunching grin that Aziraphale tried and failed to return, and then he was gone, just as abruptly as he’d arrived, and with just as little regard for the laws of physics or, indeed, appearances._

“Not to worry, angel,” Crowley said, rather too flippantly for Aziraphale’s taste. “If Gabe or anyone shows up, there’s plenty of room under there for me to hide.”

Aziraphale glanced up to see what she was referring to, and blushed and tutted again when he realised Crowley meant his voluminous gown.

“What have you got there, anyway,” Crowley said, coming closer, eyes still on his skirts. She pulled off her sunglasses for a better look. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said weakly. Crowley stepped forward. Aziraphale stepped back. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. And then she lunged.

It was done playfully, easy enough for Aziraphale to side-step and huff and purse his lips at, but then Crowley was still there, standing closer than before and looking at Aziraphale curiously.

“Come on, angel. You know I already know about your porn collection.”

Aziraphale sighed. He’d have to outright lie and he… didn’t know if he could. Not to Crowley. “It’s a Shakespeare play,” he said, finally producing the quarto. “His first ever, actually.”

“The one you inspired?” Crowley asked, though she was still looking at Aziraphale’s face rather than the book.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, pleased in spite of himself that Crowley remembered. “This is the last copy of it in existence, so when I heard they’d acquired it at the publisher’s down the road...”

“You bought it from them at a fair price?” Crowley guessed, eyebrows raised innocently.

“I jolly well tried to!” Aziraphale said, and he had. He’d offered them a more than fair price. It really couldn’t be said that he hadn’t tried to keep things above board.

“But I suppose they were rather reluctant to just-- hand over something so valuable,” Crowley prompted, giving Aziraphale an annoyingly solicitous look.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes one simply has to take matters into one’s own hands.”

“So you stole it.”

“I did no such thing!” Aziraphale spluttered indignantly, despite the fact that he had, in fact, tried to do just that. “Nothing so underhanded. I simply… asked to see it, and then…” he waved vaguely, hoping to encompass the whole affair without having to give further detail.

A broad grin spread slowly across Crowley’s face. “Are you saying,” she said. “Are you saying you just-- went in, in broad daylight, and took it?”

Aziraphale’s skirts rustled as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I suppose it does sound rather bold when you put it like that.”

"Bold! Aziraphale, more like bald-faced stealing. Isn't that a sin?"

"Only a small one,” Aziraphale said, annoyed now. “Besides, I was saving that man from his own avarice.”

Crowley laughed delightedly. “Were you!”

“Oh yes, you didn’t see his face, Crowley,” Aziraphale said darkly, clutching the quarto a little more tightly. “His eyes were two silver crowns. He only wanted it for his own gain, didn’t appreciate what he had at _all_.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Whereas you…”

“Are going to cherish and preserve it, as it deserves. Obviously.”

“Obviously. You,” Crowley said, waving a finger at him and cackling. “You have clearly been picking up a thing or two. What’s it about, anyway? Never did get to see this one.”

“Oh, uh, well,” Aziraphale said, horribly reluctant and utterly unprepared to examine why.

“Oh, _that_ good, is it?” Crowley said, and tried once again to pluck it from Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale, again, just managed to avoid it, hiding the book behind his back, but now Crowley was very close, her arms snaking around his waist with that small, infuriatingly teasing smile on her lips, and she smelled very good indeed.

“Methinks the angel doth protest too much,” Crowley murmured, her breath casting a warm prickle of sensation down Aziraphale’s neck and exposed decolletage.

“We shouldn’t,” Aziraphale said feebly, already leaning into it. “Not here. You remember what happened last time.”

_The room was pleasantly hazy with candlelight and just the right amount of spirits when Aziraphale slid to his knees between Crowley’s sprawling trouser-clad legs and started to unfasten her fly. She gave him an indolent, half-drunk smile, and sat forward for a kiss, tipping his chin up with her fingers, and he stroked her through her breeches for a while as they feasted lazily on one another’s mouths._

_He was half-standing over her, one knee on the chaise beside her hip, just sliding his hand beneath her placket, fingers searching for her delicious heat, when Gabriel’s voice called out from somewhere within the apartment. Aziraphale froze with his hand over her mound (shorn smooth, dear Lord), and stared at Crowley in horror, absolutely certain they were about to be discovered._

_The unfairness of it was what galled him. It was the middle of the night, in his own private lodgings. They were supposed to be safe here. But in the end the only safety came from Gabriel’s confusion over the number of rooms and how, exactly, to traverse them in a mortal body. It gave Crowley just enough time to slip out unheeded, her black-clad self disappearing like a dark moon around one side of the bookcase just as Gabriel rounded the other, the twin tidal forces of Aziraphale’s world._

“I just want to see what’s got you--” Crowley said, voice low as her lips grazed the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, sending a shudder right down his spine. “Ah ha!”

She held up the quarto in victory, taken without resistance from Aziraphale’s lax grip. When she tried to step back, Aziraphale stopped her with his hands on her hips, breathing unsteadily. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from Crowley’s long, narrow throat, feeling tantalised and agonising over it. But eventually he noticed that Crowley had gone silent and still.

“Robin Hood?” she said blankly, staring at the title on the cover. “You inspired Shakespeare to write a play about Robin Hood? A Comedy?”

She looked up and Aziraphale wasn’t fast enough to avert his gaze. _It was fresh in my mind,_ he might have said. _I don’t have your imagination, to come up with something original. And besides, it wasn’t exactly on purpose, no need to read anything into it. We were just drinking one night and got to talking. He kept asking me questions, I didn’t realise he’d go and write it all down._ He barely even got a chance to open his mouth, however. Crowley’s eyes darkened ominously and the next thing Aziraphale knew he had been manhandled back against the wall and was moaning loudly into Crowley’s heated kisses.

 _God._ They shouldn’t. They really, really shouldn’t. But he was weak in the face of anticipated pleasure, he always had been, and Crowley was not only no exception, but quite possibly the case in point. And when she pushed one skirt-clad knee between Aziraphale’s thighs, he lost the feeble line of dissenting thought altogether.

Well. One of the benefits of wearing a dress was the ease of access. Once one had applied sufficient determination to getting past the sheer number of petticoats (and determination was a quality Crowley had never lacked) there was nothing else barring the way. By the time Crowley worked her hand up there, Aziraphale was flushed and aching and wet as could be. Two of Crowley’s long fingers slid in with ease while she sucked what would likely be a lurid mark on the base of Aziraphale’s neck, before descending to his breasts.

There was a moment of awkwardness as Crowley tried to get him undressed one-handed, before she let out a frustrated sound and snapped her fingers. Aziraphale’s outer layers disappeared, leaving him in nothing but his stays and shift.

“Really, Crowley,” he complained, but when Crowley reached behind him and pulled the bow of his stays loose, yanking down the front panel far enough to get at one nipple, Aziraphale rather lost the high ground with the moan he let out.

“Don’t tell me you were attached to those,” Crowley said, voice a little muffled. “We both know you’ll never wear them again.”

“No, well,” Aziraphale admitted around a gasp. “But they were expensive.”

Crowley stilled, her red mouth half an inch from Aziraphale’s wet nipple, fingers buried deep inside her but no longer moving. “Do you want me to bring them back? Wrap you up again, all nice and tight?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Aziraphale groaned, moving his hips desperately. “No, you wicked creature. Get back to-- Oh God, oh _yes._ ”

“Look at you,” Crowley murmured, working her way back up Aziraphale’s chest to his neck. “Thieving, debauchery. It looks good on you.”

Oh, so that was what had put Crowley in this mood. Aziraphale kept trying to touch her, her hair, her waist, her small, soft breasts, only to be batted away. Not that he didn’t love her dedicated attentions, but she wasn’t usually so forceful. What was it she had said earlier? Aziraphale tried to remember through the lust-haze. She’d said that… Aziraphale had been picking up a thing or too. From a demon. Something squirmed unhappily in his stomach, but now wasn’t the time to protest, because then Crowley might _stop._

 _“Moving_ again _, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked with what he presumably thought was polite incredulity._

_“It’s been a quarter of a century,” Aziraphale replied. “People are starting to ask questions.”_

_“If you say so,” Gabriel said dubiously. “I would hate to think you were doing it purely for your own comfort. We’re soldiers of the Almighty, after all! We don’t need…” he picked up a velvet cushion from Aziraphale’s desk chair like it was a dead rat. “Softness. But!” He brightened up and punched Aziraphale on the arm. “You_ are _the expert.”_

_“Yes, I am,” Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from saying a little curtly, though he attempted to soften it with a smile._

_“And so many books!” Gabriel continued. “It almost seems like you have more than last time.”_

_“Yes, well spotted,” Aziraphale muttered, too low to be heard. At a more normal volume, he said, “One has to appear to have hobbies, you know. Blend in. All that.”_

_“Ah,” Gabriel said. “Yes, I see. But no need to go overboard, hmm?”_

_“Well, er, quite.”_

_“At least you don’t eat!” Gabriel shuddered happily. “These humans, eh? Gotta love ‘em, but seriously, ew.”_

_“Oh it’s not so bad,” Aziraphale said blithely. “You should give it a try some time.”_

_It was worth it for the look on Gabriel’s face, though he could have done without the following remarks about Aziraphale’s idiosyncrasies. Well, Gabriel could say what he liked -- and of course, he would. Getting his wrist slapped for that kind of thing didn’t truly bother Aziraphale, because he knew his superiors simply couldn’t understand this world as well as he did, and he extended them some grace for that. But he also knew his enjoyment of Earthly pleasures didn’t stop with human things, and that… that was…_

_Gabriel could never know, that was all._

Crowley was on her knees now, one of Aziraphale’s legs draped decadently over her shoulder as her mouth worked between Aziraphale’s thighs. Oh _God_ , how had he forgotten? Because while generally he was more comfortable in a male body, there were some sensations that simply couldn’t be replicated, and coming hard against Crowley’s tongue with her fingers pushed up inside him was quite such a one.

“Oh. Oh, Crowley,” he breathed, shivering and bucking with aftershocks as Crowley gently licked him back to Earth. She didn’t say anything, however, and when Aziraphale looked down, he saw that she had her eyes closed, cheek pressed to his inner thigh and petticoats hitched up around her hips. Her long, slender thighs were exposed and her free hand was working furiously between her legs. “ _Heavens,_ ” Aziraphale said fervently, a fresh bolt of desire shooting through him at the sight. “Come-- come here, my dear.”

Disentangling himself, he pulled Crowley up to standing. She protested with a whimper, but went easily when Aziraphale guided her back to sit on his desk.

“Let me see you,” he said, and Crowley’s eyes became as heated as a dying star as she pulled up her skirts again and spread her legs, and, never looking away from Aziraphale, began once more to touch herself.

“Yes, that’s it,” Aziraphale murmured, mesmerised. He touched her ankles, then let his hands trail softly up her silk-clad calves to her knees. He untied the garter ribbons at her thighs and drew the stockings off before allowing his hands to go higher, to the tender skin of her inner thighs, softer than any silk. Crowley whimpered, head falling back, and Aziraphale couldn’t resist, couldn’t resist that neck, or the look of abandon on her face. He leaned forward to kiss her throat as he pulled out the pins fastening the stomacher to the gown, throwing it aside once it was loose to reveal Crowley’s stays. They were the same deep, midnight blue as the rest of her outfit, and now unmoored, the gown over the top of them slid from her shoulders. Aziraphale leaned back a touch to admire the effect, the way Crowley’s breasts rose and fell against the confines of her stays, the contrast of the deep blue of the gown with the rich red of her hair, and then, further down, the open cradle of her legs, the flushed, dark pink of her flesh, wet with her desire.

“Yes,” he murmured again as he watched her, panting and flushed. “Yes, that’s very good. Keep going, my dear.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley moaned. “Touch me. _Please._ ”

Aziraphale leaned in to kiss her softly parted mouth. “As you wish,” he said, and drew her back off the desk by her hips, turned her around, buried his face in the nape of her neck as he made quick work of the sagging gown, the petticoats, the bustle and stays. And when she was finally naked, hair coming down from its style in thick red tendrils, he bent her over the desk, one hand petting her back, the other pushing between her legs, and fucked her soundly while she whimpered and keened and scrabbled at the wood as she begged for more.

Afterwards, they lay together on the floor in a nest of discarded clothing, warmed by the nearby fire in the reading room’s small grate. The flickering light limned Crowley’s bare shoulder, made her ruined hair into a glowing red corona. Aziraphale never failed to be utterly entranced by her like this, skimming his hand slowly up and down her flank, the dip of her waist, the slight swell of her hip.

“So you really did just filch it?” Crowley asked languidly, the hint of a contented smile playing at the corners of her eyes.

“Really, my dear, just drop it,” Aziraphale sighed, tapping her lightly on the arse in reprimand.

“Oh no,” she said. “No, no, no. You literally miracled a play about me into existence, and then brazenly stole the last remaining copy of it. I’m not going to let you forget about it. Ever.”

“Look,” Aziraphale tried, “at least I was upfront about it.”

“Oh yes, very honest.” She laughed softly, affectionately. “Probably the most honest theft I’ve ever heard of.” She reached out to cup his cheek. “Only you, Aziraphale, could be so wholesome about breaking the law.”

“Oh pish-posh, human laws,” Aziraphale muttered. “When have we ever bothered with those?”

“You really are a devious bastard.” Crowley was almost glowing with her smile now. Then, more softly, “No, don’t look like that. You know I love it.” She stopped, eyes wide, as though she hadn’t meant to say that. Then she blinked, and licked her lips, and whispered hoarsely, “You know I love you.”

Aziraphale stared, mind stuttering, a dying star running out of fuel. On the mantle, his clock suddenly seemed to be ticking very loudly. His heart raced and his ears buzzed and Crowley’s expression was slowly changing from one of open vulnerability and hope to something else. A loud pop from the fireplace made Aziraphale flinch, withdrawing his hand from Crowley’s skin as though burned by a spark. And that spurred the rest of his body into motion. He got up quickly and started pulling on his clothes, words spilling from his lips, barely comprehended.

“Goodness, look at the time. You really should get going, my dear. Gabriel, you know. One never knows when he’ll be about. And the hour! It really is indecently late, and I’m rather tired, yes, well past my bedtime and I’m quite sure past yours, too.”

He spun about, gathering up his things in a haphazard tizzy, and when he finally turned back to Crowley she was standing quietly by the fire, immaculately dressed and coiffed once more. Sunglasses firmly in place.

“You don’t sleep,” she said. Her voice was flat and awful.

And then she was leaving.

And then she was gone.

Aziraphale stood alone in the middle of his reading room, half-naked, trembling, wondering why his heart was collapsing.

He didn’t see Crowley again for almost fifteen years.

**1862 A.D.**

Aziraphale didn't remember the journey home. It was a short walk from St. James’s Park to his bookshop in Soho, and he didn’t remember a moment of it. He paced about the shop floor, door locked and blinds drawn, spraying half-formed thoughts like solar flares.

Things had been fine, that was the worst part. They had been absolutely _fine_. A bit awkward, at times, after Crowley’s slip of the tongue. A little tense, on occasion. But they had picked up the Arrangement again more or less smoothly when the situation called for it, and if they weren’t as intimate as they had once been, that was hardly Aziraphale’s fault.

(It was hard to see Crowley subdued, hood-eyed, reticent, and not reach out to him, but this was surely for the best. Some distance to clear their heads couldn’t be anything but a good thing.)

And Crowley was so moody these days, so dark and withdrawn, that of course when he asked Aziraphale to meet him, Aziraphale went willingly. God, of course he did. Sometimes they were so long between visits recently that Aziraphale found himself taking foolish risks with foreign revolutionaries simply to entice Crowley back into his orbit; _of course_ a mere letter would bring him immediately, heart rising like a lark. So then the shock of what Crowley had actually wanted was… unbearable.

How dare Crowley ask that of him! As though he only valued what Aziraphale could provide him with, instead of… instead of… The betrayal of it made his eyes well with angry tears. As if ruining things 200 years ago with his stupid confession hadn’t been enough!

(The very _thought_ of Crowley even in the vicinity of holy water made him sick with fear, as though he hadn’t already spent the last 700 years looking over his shoulder, as though all his protective instincts weren’t straining to keep Hell from ever discovering Crowley’s transgressions.)

He didn’t remember picking up the quill, either. Nor unstoppering the ink; taking out the paper. Hours later, he stared hollowly at a furious letter full of angry words he didn’t mean, and got up, and threw it in the fire. Then he reached for the whiskey, and paced and drank until he couldn’t anymore. And when he had finally sobered up, he tried the whole letter writing thing again, but this time the words wouldn’t come at all. (Burned away, everything was burned away, they had gone through all the layers of their long association and fed each in turn to the fire.)

He stared into space as his quill dripped black splatter across an expanse of white like an inverse sky, the endless space of his existence. He remembered pears, remembered rain, a garden. Bright, curious eyes the colour of the sun.

“What was I thinking?” he whispered to himself. “Oh yes, Aziraphale, why not enjoy a nice walk, some tasty pears, the body of your adversary? And now look at what it’s got me.”

He dropped the quill and let his head fall into his hands. The anger was long gone, washed out by the alcohol, and left behind it an aching well of betrayal and confusion, and a bleak sense of guilt.

No. Why should he feel guilty? He was an angel, for God’s sake, and Crowley was a demon. Crowley had made his choices, and he’d Fallen for them. What they’d had -- it had been a spot of fun, a delightful shared experience, like drinking or eating together. And if Crowley had… if he’d read more into it… then that wasn’t… God, Aziraphale had tried _so_ _hard_ to keep their friendship going these last two centuries, to keep things light and easy. Civil. As they’d always been. He didn’t understand why this had happened. Any of this.

And beneath it all, like the steady drum of a heartbeat, one question repeated itself over and over: if Crowley loved him, if he really meant what he’d said 209 years ago, then why on Earth did he want the means to abandon him?

This was untenable! Aziraphale picked himself up, cleaned himself up with a quick miracle, and stepped outside to hail a cab to Crowley’s Mayfair townhouse. (It was morning again, and he had no idea how many days had passed.)

When he arrived, the house was quiet. The house was always quiet -- Crowley didn’t keep staff, and Aziraphale had never understood why he needed so much space solely for himself -- but this time was different, a sleeping kind of silence that enveloped the whole place in a muffled shroud as thick as velvet. He stood a moment in the front hall, agitated and indecisive.

Surely… if Crowley wanted some space after their disagreement, he should be granted it. He would know where to find Aziraphale when he was ready to be reasonable again, wouldn’t he? Just to be sure, he left his calling card on the side table by the hat stand.

Then, resolve melting like spun sugar, Aziraphale turned and left.


	6. 5 - End State

_**~Interlude~** _

_And that’s the end of it? Nucleogenesis completed? Do we… do we simply mourn the star’s noble sacrifice, and move on?_

Not in the least, angel. How do you think the elements get out of the star to make life?

_How, then?_

A big-- really big explosion. Massive. As much light given off as an entire galaxy.

_Oh, like the one we saw at Bethlehem. What did you call it?_

A supernova. Exactly. Not all stars go out that way. Not the smaller ones. The sun will go with a bit less fanfare, just shut off the power and go dark one day. But the bigger ones, the ones with sufficient mass, they go up like a firework, like an atom bomb.

_With a bang, rather than a whimper. I suppose you approve._

If you’ve got to go, go with style, that’s what I always say.

_Yes, I am aware. (That's what I'm afraid of.) And after that?_

Depends on the mass again. There’s always something left behind, some compact little memory of what went before. Might be a white dwarf or a neutron star. With sufficient mass, it can lead to a black hole. Even they serve their purpose, though. Most galaxies have them, right at the very centre. The dark heart of the cosmos.

**Chapter 5: End State**

**1941 A.D.**

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stared at his hands. Four fingers, one thumb. Amazing invention, opposable thumbs, the Almighty really knew what She was doing with those. Well of course She did, that was Her whole thing. But imagine what life would be like without them. He, for example, was currently using them to grip onto the handle of the leather travelling bag as though a tornado would come along at any moment and try to rip it from him.

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

He stared at his own knuckles in amazement, the way the skin blanched under pressure, the way the whorls of surrounding skin filled with red. He couldn’t feel a thing, as though he wasn’t actually _in_ his body, sitting in Crowley’s new car. As though the force of the jolt that had struck him back at the church had somehow pushed his true self out of his mortal flesh. He’d never been discorporated, but perhaps it was something like this. If so, it wouldn’t be so bad. This strange sense of disconnection was quite peaceful, really.

“We’re here, angel.”

(He remembered falling asleep at Crowley’s side as he told Aziraphale about the stars, naked and sated; content. He’d woken some time later to the smell of the living earth and damp, growing things, the light just starting to turn murky with dawn. It was raining, and in the privacy of the long grass of that meadow, Crowley had lifted a wing over him, so that he wouldn’t get wet.)

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Blinking, Aziraphale was momentarily confused between the arc of a sleek black wing, glinting green and pink where the light caught the feathers just so, and the dark roof of the Bentley. The door open, Crowley stood beside it patiently, his hand outstretched to help him.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, I, yes. Thank you.”

Crowley’s hand on his back as he guided Aziraphale towards the door of the bookshop was light as a feather, and yet, for all his body was absent from him just now, Aziraphale felt that touch like the hot eye of the sun.

“Keys,” Crowley prompted gently, and Aziraphale realised he’d been staring blankly at the door to his home as though it were some incomprehensible object.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, then hesitated.

“Crowley, I--” he started, turning to face him, but the sight of his face -- eyes uncovered, glowing softly and faintly creased in concern -- arrested him. Crowley shifted from foot to foot, waiting patiently, always so patient. And then Aziraphale caught the faint flicker in his jaw, the slight downturn of his mouth, and his freefalling brain finally kicked into gear again. “My dear, your feet!”

“‘S okay, angel,” Crowley said, shifting his weight again with the smallest of winces.

Had he been in pain this whole time? And yet he had got out of the car to walk Aziraphale safely back to his shop. That impossible feeling bloomed in his chest again, less like a flower and more like a German missile going off a scant few feet above his head, an eruption of flame that seemed to roil outwards without end until he was bursting with it.

“No, you-- you must be burned,” Aziraphale said. “Come in. Let me-- come inside. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. Crowley never had been able to deny his requests. (Had Aziraphale always understood that? The knowledge seemed raw with newness.) Sighing dramatically, Crowley removed his hat and made his way to the comfortable little loveseat Aziraphale liked to read in, limping more openly now (oh, how that _ached_ ).

When he followed a moment later, decanter and crystal tumblers in hand, the loveseat seemed to have grown in length to accommodate Crowley’s angle-boned limbs, more a settee now (and that ached, too).

(He remembered an arm draped around his shoulders as they drank together, and around his waist as they rested on a long-forgotten bed. Fingers entwined under covers in the dark of the night and walking through towns in times and places where it was safe to do so openly. Brushing a kiss to Crowley’s cheek in greeting or farewell, or simply as an outlet for the warmth in his belly. A million little instances of affection, scattered like stars across six thousand years, pointing like an arrow to an insignificant London church.)

“Here, give me your feet,” Aziraphale said, pulling up a tasseled footstool and patting his thighs with forced lightness. He honestly wasn’t sure what touching Crowley would do to him right now, but he mustn’t allow himself to dwell (those gradients were dangerous, stronger at the feet than at the heart. They could pull you apart, if you let them.)

“Really, ‘s no need,” Crowley said mildly, though Aziraphale could tell it was forced, too. (Oh, how awkward they were, now. How distant from the simplicity of what they had once been.)

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley, striving for normalcy. “Then why haven’t you already healed yourself?”

“Weeeell,” Crowley started, trailing off into a string of incoherent sounds.

“Consecrated ground,” Aziraphale said, suspicions confirmed. “You can’t, can you?”

“I wouldn’t say _can’t_ ,” Crowley said. “Not exactly _can’t_. Just… might take a bit longer than usual.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “So you’d rather be in pain for weeks while you heal the human way than let me help?”

Crowley huffed. “Uh. Suppose not,” he eventually conceded.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, and glanced pointedly at Crowley’s feet again. With a grimace, Crowley swung his legs around until he was more upright, though still slouched in that spine-bending way of his, and gingerly put his feet in Aziraphale lap.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” Aziraphale said, rolling up the cuffs of his trousers in search of laces or buckles to unfasten, but Crowley leant forward and stopped him with a hand, looking faintly embarrassed, before the black snakeskin leather of his rather stylish shoes _rippled,_ the ends shifting and dividing into toes while the scales melted away into skin, and became a pair of human feet.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Honestly, Crowley,” he tutted. “If you’d just worn real shoes like a normal person…”

“Oh, oh, a normal person,” Crowley muttered without heat. “That the kind of person who checks his supposed allies out first before putting his life in their hands?” He slumped back into the loveseat-cum-settee (which was also looking decidedly more plush than it had before). “Somehow I didn’t expect to be spending my evening tap-dancing down a sanctified aisle.”

“If it’s any consolation, you were very dashing,” Aziraphale murmured, before he realised what he was saying. He looked down immediately, hot confusion washing over him, but couldn’t resist glancing up once more at Crowley through his lashes. He, too, was looking a little warm in the face, but he had thrown his head back on the couch cushion, thankfully too busy protesting to notice Aziraphale’s reaction. (Lord in Heaven, this self-consciousness was grinding _._ )

“Uuuuugh, shut up,” Crowley groaned. “I told you, if Hell found out I’d spent my evening rescuing _you_ from the kind of bad guys that could give _them_ tips…”

Aziraphale swallowed, horribly reminded of their last meeting. He dropped his gaze to Crowley’s feet, and sucked in a breath at the cracked and reddened skin he saw on the soles. There were blisters on the balls of his feet and on each big toe. It looked incredibly painful.

“No, of course,” he said distantly, touching the skin of Crowley’s left foot as gently as he could. The healing miracle flowed out of him as easily as ever, but the effect was somewhat muted. He had never tried to heal a demon before -- the only demon he knew was Crowley, of course, and he was generally more able to take care of himself than this -- so perhaps this was normal. Glancing up, he saw that Crowley’s eyes were closed, his brow knit and hands clenched as though he were in pain.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked. What if being healed by an angel could actually hurt a demon? A flare of panic threatened to rear up, but Crowley quickly interceded.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just feels a bit strange.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. It _was_ a bit intimate, he supposed. They didn’t use their celestial (or occult) power on each other very often, and tonight had been… rather a lot. Especially since it _had_ been 50 years since Aziraphale had last seen Crowley, and he had honestly wondered, after everything, if it might be the last.

Oh, how he’d _missed_ Crowley. For the first time, Aziraphale really let himself feel it, the shape of that absence in his life, what it meant. The way his heart had ignited at the sight of Crowley by the nave, making his way towards Aziraphale as though no time had passed, no argument had, no feelings hurt.

(He remembered Crowley appearing in the Bastille, just in time to quite literally save Aziraphale’s neck. Crowley climbing in through the window of Nottingham Castle, to rescue him from the sheriff. Crowley showing up on the Appian Way, flashing a bit of eldritch horror at the men attempting to steal his coin purse. Crowley pulling him out of the way of falling masonry at Pompei, at Jericho. And each time, how Aziraphale’s heart had flamed at the sight of him.)

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s left foot only to see that the entire thing was healed -- pale, smooth skin in place of the burnt. That had gone more quickly than he’d expected, almost as though the potency of his miracle had increased while his mind drifted. Above him, Crowley made a small whimpering sound, and Aziraphale blinked before remembering himself.

“I’m sorry, my dear, how remiss of me,” he said, reaching for the still-injured right foot. Crowley breathed in sharply when he started working on that one, then the tension bled out of him in inches. Watching him, Aziraphale softened too, something hard (something _important_ ) melting away.

“I was surprised to see you tonight,” he said quietly. Crowley glanced down at him and Aziraphale immediately looked away. “You were gone for a long time.”

“Eh, what’s half a century between friends?” Crowley said dismissively.

 _Friends._ That was… that was a loaded word, for them. And a terrible, searing relief.

“Where did you go?”

Crowley was quiet for a long time before he spoke.

“Not far,” he said. “Listen, Aziraphale, I know things have been a bit--”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale said quickly. He glanced up, mouth suddenly dry. “No need to-- to hash it all out again.”

Crowley gave him another long look. “All right,” he said eventually, but this time when he relaxed back into the couch cushion, he continued to watch Aziraphale, something inscrutable in his yellow gaze. Aziraphale faltered, hands stilling, caught like a speck of dust in the vast, inevitable gravity well of a star. Gazing at Crowley, that terrifying sensation in his chest flared to life again, towering and deep. For Crowley, who never asked for anything. Oh, except that he silently begged for _everything_. And Aziraphale had to kiss him, had to slide into his lap and cup his face in tender hands, had to shudder into his embrace like getting into a warm bath at the end of a hard day.

“I forgot how good it feels to be held by you,” he whispered, lips moving against Crowley’s. Crowley made a small pained noise, though Aziraphale was quite certain he’d finished healing his feet, and held him impossibly tight.

(He remembered laying with Crowley, sharing breath, and sweat, and heartbeats, bodies wrapped around each other like vines. He remembered the bright core of him, brimful and burning, his _want_ for Crowley bursting out of him in great arcs, like arms, trying to hook around Crowley and keep him forever close. He couldn’t even remember when that had been; perhaps it had been every time. (How hadn’t he seen this before?))

Aziraphale kept a bed in the flat upstairs for those cold winter nights when he wanted somewhere warm to hunker down with his books. Crowley had never been up there before, but they made it there nonetheless (Aziraphale couldn’t say how). They fell together, a meteorite in slow motion, burning a trail across the bedroom, coming to a soft landing on the feather duvet. They must have undressed somewhere along the way, because they were both naked now (Aziraphale couldn’t say how, then, either). He was lost, utterly lost, heart pounding in rhythm with Crowley’s fingers on his skin, Crowley’s tongue in his mouth, held aloft of the maelstrom by nothing but the beacon of his eyes.

 _I love you_ , he thought.

 _Oh God, I_ love _you._

He thought it when Crowley’s eyes widened at the touch of Aziraphale’s hand to his erection. He thought it when Crowley kissed his neck as he breached Aziraphale with one slick finger. He thought it at the look of closed-eyed abandon on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale straddled his lap and took him into his body. And he thought it at every moment in between.

And later, when Crowley held him from behind and had him again, a delicious heat uncurling in Aziraphale’s stomach and where Crowley was caressing him between his legs so incredibly slowly -- he thought it then, too. _I love you_. And it was colossal, and terrifying, and when Crowley mouthed those same words into the nape of his neck, sweat-slick and sensitive, Aziraphale’s love surged, and coalesced.

And the weight of it was immense. As he neared his end, it seemed to teeter on some invisible brink, a knife edge of variables and initial conditions -- teetered, and _faltered_ on that dark horizon. And as he pulsed hotly into Crowley’s hand, held so gently in Crowley’s arms, possessed, cherished, wanted, _loved_ , the force of it all turned him inside out.

Quietly, he imploded, collapsing under the weight of his own love.

And the sucking wound of it was awful.

*

Crowley had fallen asleep. He must have. They hadn’t moved from where they’d been lying when they’d come, and he had softened and slipped out of Aziraphale some time ago; the gentle kisses on the back of his neck and shoulders tapering off, his breath a regular, warm gust across Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale tried to extricate himself carefully, but he wasn’t in full control of his limbs. His movements were jerky and poorly coordinated. His whole body trembled.

Still, like a good little Orpheus, he didn’t look back, propelled not so much by optimism as desperation. He was dressed in his trousers and shirtsleeves, making for the door as quietly as he could, when Crowley spoke. (Aziraphale had known, had _known_ he was awake, but had hoped for mercy nonetheless.)

“Where are you going?” Crowley asked. His voice was low and tight, as though fearing the worst but trying to talk himself into believing that he was being unreasonable: controlling what he could, the pitch and metre of his voice. Aziraphale recognised the attempt, and recognised the failure, too. They were both of them so incredibly out of control.

“I need to...” he started, licking his dry lips. “I’m going to… Air. I need some air. And-- you shouldn’t wait up for me. Or, um, wait at all.”

Crowley raised himself up on one elbow, the duvet sliding sinfully low on his hips, staring at Aziraphale as if he were talking a language he couldn’t understand.

“I don’t…” he shook his head minutely, as though he couldn’t quite fathom it. “Are you… What are you saying? I thought...” and his expression was pleading now, stripped bare, exposed.

Aziraphale couldn’t _stand_ it.

“This was a mistake,” he said, heaving the words out around the rocks in his throat. “I was grateful for your help, but it went too far. This… this shouldn’t happen again.”

“Why?” Crowley whispered.

_Because this, in my chest, in my fingertips, this burst of flame that roils forever outwards -- in its wake is nothing but debris. I’m flying apart and I don’t have the power to hold myself together._

“You know why,” he said thickly. Heaven, Hell, both could be watching and the result would be just as catastrophic for Crowley either way. Far better to blame them than his own inadequate heart. (This sick satisfaction in his own misery was surely only what he deserved for his many, many failings.)

“Actually,” Crowley said, sitting up fully, eyes hardening. “Actually I don’t think I do. Why don’t you explain it to me, Aziraphale.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale could cultivate panic, channel it to make his mind work more quickly, see things more clearly.

This time, panic made him stupid, and he would hate himself for decades afterwards without ever knowing how he could even begin to apologise.

Face flooding with colour, he blurted out, “We shouldn’t spend so much time together, or be so, so familiar. The Arrangement is one thing but you’re a bad influence, Crowley.”

Crowley’s mouth worked but no words came out.

“You like it,” Aziraphale barrelled on, spiralling tighter and tighter. “When I steal and, and do your dirty work. You love leading me astray.”

“What?” Crowley said, eyes huge.

“I know you’ve been tempting me!” Aziraphale cried wretchedly. “Probably since Eden! And I was-- I’ve been too _stupid_ to--”

“I’ve never tempted you,” Crowley said, voice thin and devastated. “Never. Not once.”

And in that moment, Aziraphale believed him. Believed him, but had too much inertia now; had flung himself off the edge, catastrophic forces at work. It would be hours -- days -- before he could slow down again, and by then, it would be far too late. Crowley would be gone.

“Listen to yourself,” he said brokenly. “You’re a _demon_. It’s what you do.”

The damage was already done.

_**~Interlude~** _

_Surely, this must be the end._

No, angel. Not even close.


	7. 6 - New Life

_**~A Different Kind of Interlude~** _

It may be useful, at this point, to remember that Crowley fell because he asked too many questions.

Language is a funny thing. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale has ever met a language they couldn’t immediately comprehend. Part of the job description, in fact -- Aziraphale’s little performance in the Bastille shouldn’t lead anyone to believe anything other than he, like any stalwart Englishman (or English-presenting celestial being), was fully capable of loving French culture while disdaining the actual French (especially while they were actively trying to cut his head off). But the point is, while language is used for communication, it is certainly no guarantee of understanding. At the same time, between two beings who know each other very, very well, silence can be its own language.

Over the millennia, Crowley has become an expert in understanding Aziraphale’s unspoken language. The way he asked without asking, the way he invited persuasion with the tilt of his head and those huge, shining eyes. The way he disavowed Crowley to anyone who might apply excessive scrutiny, while the warmth of his starburst smile still lingered in his laugh lines.

The way he sat in Crowley’s Bentley, bathed in garish neon light (the gas in that light having arrived on Earth via the very stellar processes previously described) and offered an apology in the only way he was able: wrapped in a tartan thermos.

So Crowley fell for asking questions, while Aziraphale, who had somehow been created with the instinctive knowledge of how to toe the line (or at least pay lip-service to it) did not. Over the years he had in fact become an accomplished rules-lawyer, skirting his way around the disapproving eye of Heaven by only abstaining from those things that had been explicitly banned (even if only because no other angel could begin to fathom doing the kinds of things Aziraphale barely batted an eyelash over; why make a rule about not consorting with demons, after all, when the very idea was unthinkable?) Thus Crowley was forthright, questioning, fearless to the point of recklessness, whereas Aziraphale was anxious by nature and slow to change. But that was not to say they were really any different at all, when you got right down to it.

A matter of semantics, you might say.

 _You go too fast for me._ Not, in fact, a death knell, or even a criticism, but a plea for understanding. _Don’t listen to what I said before. I want you just as much as you want me. And I don’t know how to be with you, yet._

So yes, Crowley was well accustomed and quite adept at reading between Aziraphale’s lines. It didn't really hurt all that much. He'd had worse. At least he _understood_ this time. And he never stopped believing in Aziraphale, so much so that later, entering Heaven in the shield of Aziraphale’s body, Crowley had never felt so safe. (The body is a language all its own.)

As for Aziraphale, well, for all that he was a being of love, it went without saying that he was never as easy with it as Crowley. But once that chain was cut, doubt was flung away with all the force of a coronal mass ejection.

Perhaps a fall does not always end in fire, but it does always end in change.

**Chapter 6: New Life**

**2019 A.D.**

It was a warm night, that first night of their freedom. Adam had apparently extended Tadfield’s favourable climate to the rest of the reconstituted country, because there wasn’t even a hint of a chill in the air as the sun began to descend towards the horizon and the shadows lengthened.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley as they walked unhurriedly away from the Ritz. He was quiet, uncharacteristically so. Usually, when Crowley got quiet, it was more in the realm of pensive, or brooding; this calm contentedness was new. In a nice way, genuinely. But it was also a little disconcerting, and now that their meal was finally over, Aziraphale was having trouble knowing what to say.

Part of him was waiting for Crowley to invite him back to his place again. That had been… incredibly unexpected, after everything. Not just the last week (his insides curled up in shame over what he had said at the bandstand) but after everything. The way Crowley just kept _reaching out_ to him, ever more tentatively, but never completely devoid of hope -- it was a level of bravery Aziraphale could barely comprehend.

Now, however, Crowley was quiet. Hands in his pockets, expression inscrutable as he sauntered along at Aziraphale’s side down the pavement. Overhead, orange sodium lamps were just starting to flicker on, and in the waning daylight, they turned Crowley’s short hair almost garish. Aziraphale’s hands tingled with the sense-memory of running his fingers through it.

He was filled up with love, and he still didn’t know how to say it.

“Crowley.”

“Hmm?”

Crowley cocked his head in Aziraphale’s direction but didn’t look over. Staring dumbly for a moment at the curl of his demonic mark beside his ear, Aziraphale nearly walked into someone going the opposite way. By the time he had made his flustered apologies, the moment of courage had flitted away.

“Let’s, uh. Last night. We never opened that rather nice looking bottle of Château Pétrus.” He stumbled through it, twisting his ring about his little finger.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, the corner of his mouth turning up in the tiniest smile -- more than enough to send Aziraphale’s heart soaring. “Good call.”

*

They spent another hour or so in a haze of warm light, good wine and comfortable conversation, before Crowley, sprawling at one end of the sofa with his wine glass dangling half-empty from his fingers, remarked, “Sun’s finally gone down.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. It had been one of those long, summer sunsets, lasting an age and leaving the sky splashed with slowly-fading colour for a long time after. “What a remarkable thing. I wasn’t sure if we’d see another one.”

Crowley gave that small, relaxed smile again. With his sunglasses off now, Aziraphale’s throat tightened to see how fond it was.

“I was,” Crowley said. “Soon as you came up with that face-swapping plan, I knew it was just lunatic enough to work.”

“I don’t know how you have such faith in me,” Aziraphale said softly. “I don’t deserve it in the least.”

Crowley sat up a little straighter, brow wrinkling. “How could you ever think that?”

 _After everything_ , Aziraphale thought again. _Still, after everything._ He was sick with it, throat closing over.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “You’re the cleverest person I know. Even if you are a bit stupid sometimes.”

“A bit!” Aziraphale said, voice high, and laughed a little hysterically. “Crowley, I have been stupid more times than I know how to count.”

Crowley just shrugged, spinning the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. “Comes of living so long, I s’pect,” he said lightly. “No need to dwell on it, angel.”

And that was wrong; he understood what Crowley was offering, and it was very wrong. But Aziraphale didn’t have the fortitude in that moment to descend into an emotionally charged argument, and so he did what he knew best, and changed the subject.

“Electricity is a wonderful invention,” he said, eyes returning to Crowley’s oversized living room window, where the lights of the city were throwing up their own halo over London. “But I do rather miss seeing the stars, on occasion.”

The silence went on just a beat too long, but when Aziraphale looked back, Crowley was still smiling faintly, one eyebrow raised. “Want to do a bit of stargazing?”

And that was how Aziraphale discovered that Crowley had a roof terrace above his flat.

Well, perhaps terrace was a misnomer. Amid the various vents and access hatches, Crowley in fact had a roof garden.

“Good gracious, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, turning around in a delighted circle as he took in the pots of flowering bushes and fragrant herbs, sweet-smelling climbers and even a collection of small fruit trees. “I had no idea. It’s lovely.”

Crowley shrugged diffidently, hands in his pockets. “It’s okay. These are mostly the ones too lippy for indoors. Couldn’t let them start a rebellion.”

Aziraphale’s whole being softened catastrophically. Of course, _of course_. In his own special way, Crowley was just trying to protect them. _I love you_ , he thought. Powerfully. Tenderly. But before the words could make it to his tongue, Crowley had turned away and…

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale gasped. All across the city, as far as the eye could see, lights were blinking out. There was a minute or so of voices raised in surprise, car horns honking, and then a blanket of silence descended, and those disappeared, too.

“Thought you wanted to look at the stars,” Crowley said, his voice cutting through the pitch dark and perfect silence from a few feet away. “Can’t do that with the lights on.”

Aziraphale decided against pointing out that turning off the noise from the chaos Crowley had caused had absolutely no impact on their ability to see into space. Truth be told, he rather liked the atmosphere it bestowed. For once, it truly felt like they were alone together.

Then he glanced up at the cloudless sky and let out a breath, soft and awed. Thousands of stars -- hundreds of thousands! Constellations he hadn’t seen in hundreds of years. And more kept appearing as his vision acclimatised to the dark. The moon, which had been a waxing gibbous, was nowhere to be seen. And draped across the sky like a cradling arm, the milky way sparkled with stars.

“I forgot how colourful they are,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. He was at Aziraphale’s side now, a warm presence at his shoulder. “There’s a designated dark sky reserve about an hour’s drive away in the South Downs. I go there occasionally, but this is better.”

“I should like to see that too, some time,” Aziraphale said. “Though after this, I rather think you’ve spoiled me.”

“Let me,” Crowley murmured, so softly Aziraphale wondered if he’d misheard. He glanced over, able to see Crowley’s face now that his eyes had adjusted, but Crowley didn’t repeat himself. He just gazed steadily at Aziraphale as though he were a better sight than what was over their heads, until Aziraphale faltered and looked away again.

They stood together in silence for a few more minutes, drinking in the view, before Aziraphale heard the telltale snap of fingers and felt the movement of air behind him.

“Come on,” Crowley said, sitting down on the picnic blanket that had just appeared. “Might as well get comfortable.”

Along with the blanket were several fat, soft-looking cushions, a wicker picnic basket, and the half-drunk bottle of wine they had abandoned downstairs. The basket was so full the lid was hanging off its hinges, overflowing with cheeses and pâté, artisan bread and golden, ripe-looking pears. With the sky above him and all this spread out before him, Aziraphale felt utterly humbled.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “And if you tell me to shut up, I will have to say something worse.”

For once, Crowley just accepted it. He lay back wordlessly, a pillow tucked beneath him, and one arm bent beneath his head. After a moment, Aziraphale lay down beside him.

The moment felt poised, like rain in the air (like the first rain).

“Remember Sherwood Forest?” Aziraphale asked. “You told me about the stars, then.”

“Mmm.”

“I haven’t forgotten, you know. Not one single thing.”

Crowley was silent, and that panicked courage rose in Aziraphale’s throat again, driving ragged words before a blast wave of emotion.

“Please let me apologise, my dear,” he said. “I know you don’t like to hear it, but I really-- I think I need to say it.”

He glanced over at Crowley lying beside him, the outline of his profile, so dear and so familiar, faintly limned in starlight. Close but somehow still distant.

Crowley didn’t look back, though Aziraphale could just make out the way his mouth tensed.

“Okay, fine,” he finally sighed. “Let’s get it over with.” His tone was breezy, but it did nothing to abate the knot Aziraphale had made of his own guts.

He remembered finding Crowley on Earth after he himself had been discorporated, gone straight to his side on the first try despite never having navigated without a body before. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see him at the time, and so it had taken him a moment to parse the sound of tears in Crowley’s voice, but when he had-- oh, the sharp spear of it. After all the things they’d been through together, after all the things Aziraphale had _put_ him through, he’d never heard Crowley shattered like that before. And all because he thought he’d lost Aziraphale. Aziraphale who had pushed him away time and again.

“Crowley,” he tried, voice hoarse and cracking. “I am so, _so_ sorry that I hurt you.”

Crowley made a pained sound, his face twisting, as though he wanted to deny it but was holding it in. Aziraphale was grateful. Crowley was so steadfast, so eternally forgiving, and the weight of having taken advantage of that sat heavily on Aziraphale’s chest.

“In the bandstand,” he continued. “What I said. About us. I’ve never told a bigger lie in all my existence. I thought-- _you_ , what you are to me, I always thought it was too complicated. I was wrong, it’s really very simple. I wish I had seen that sooner.”

“No,” Crowley said softly. “Aziraphale: no. Things happen when they happen. I never once wished you out of Heaven.”

 _Of course you didn’t_ , Aziraphale thought, choking on fondness. _You’re far too compassionate to wish that on anyone._

“I’m just glad you trust me again,” Crowley said quietly, a moment later. “When-- when you didn’t, it felt like...”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said, heartbroken. “I've always trusted you. It's me I lost my faith in, somewhere along the way.”

He realised, then, that there would never be a perfect moment for it; that the kind of bravery Crowley had shown him wouldn’t just -- _bam_ \-- appear in his breast. And he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ wait for Crowley to ask, not again. Because Crowley would, eventually. He would. Because he was kind, and brave, and loyal, and ever-hopeful that one day Aziraphale would meet him at his level, and… and Aziraphale wanted that day to be today. Now. He wanted Crowley to know he didn’t have to beg for scraps. And he wanted Crowley to know how very much he was cherished.

Aziraphale swallowed. This was so frightening, even now. He had once asked Crowley (when he had still been Crawly) to come back to his bed, re-start their physical relationship after 3,000 years apart. Of course he hadn’t realised at the time why he’d felt so incomplete, but even so, Aziraphale often thought that he had never been as brave as that again.

“Crowley, I love you,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Crowley hissed, still refusing to look at him. Aziraphale remembered making love to him for the very first time, the way he’d looked up at Crowley, looked into his sunlight eyes, and seen all the wonder of Creation contained in him.

“I’ve always loved you,” Aziraphale said. “I fell for you in Eden and I never got over it.”

“You don’t have to say that.” Crowley was almost begging now.

“Of course I do, you daft old serpent,” Aziraphale said, vision wobbling alarmingly. “I’m an angel. You know we always have to tell the truth.”

Crowley let out a huge, sobbing laugh, and covered his face with his hands. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Yes, perhaps,” Aziraphale conceded. “And I still love you.”

“Uuugh, _angel_.”

“I love you,” he said gently. “I’ve _loved_ you. I’ll never _stop_ loving you.”

Reaching over, he encircled Crowley’s boney wrist with his fingers, not pulling, just asking.

“Let me,” he murmured. “We’re free now. Let me do this.”

Crowley didn’t say anything more, but after a single, aching moment, rolled to his side and buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale wrapped him in his arms, a warm flood coursing through his body, thick and golden, at the relief of holding Crowley.

“How stubbornly you've endured, my love,” Aziraphale told him softly, running fingers through Crowley’s hair and a hand down his back, trying to ease his trembling. “I don't deserve you.”

“Shut it,” Crowley replied, his voice coming wet and muffled from Aziraphale’s collar. “Just accept it, you’re stuck with me, angel.”

“Yes, I-- I want to be,” Aziraphale said softly, heartfelt. “All this time, that’s all I’ve really wanted, but I was so afraid of being a bad angel, I ended up being terrible to you instead.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “I knew you were scared. Not just of that. ‘S scary feeling like this, knowing the consequences. The way it cracks you open. I don’t blame you for that, never have. Decided long ago you were worth the hassle.”

 _But I blame myself,_ Aziraphale thought. He didn’t say it, though. It seemed churlish to keep protesting in the face of Crowley’s forgiveness.

“It would be easier if you did,” he admitted.

“Yeah, well, when have I ever been interested in making your life easier?”

“I don’t think we have time for me to list it all.”

Crowley huffed indignantly, and then they just breathed for a moment together, the first moment in six thousand years.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale eventually prompted, nudging Crowley with his shoulder. “May I kiss you?”

Crowley looked up at him, eyes huge and glowing in the low light, the colour of the heart of a star. Gently, Aziraphale raised a hand to his jaw and slowly urged him up, until he was half-lying across Aziraphale’s body and Aziraphale could finally press his lips to Crowley’s.

It was so sweet Aziraphale was almost in pain with it. Crowley’s mouth was soft and giving, and Aziraphale was drunk on the taste of him, sharp and clean like a struck match, like stardust combined with the very human salt of his skin. It was slow, and tender, the controlled combustion of a star in balance; not a spectacular light show, but its own kind of marvel.

Eventually, Crowley drew back, sharing Aziraphale’s pillow, so close their noses almost brushed. His hand was resting on Aziraphale’s waist inside his jacket, toying with the small stretch of shirt between his trousers and his waistcoat, painfully circumspect.

 _I’m sorry_ , he remembered Crowley saying to him once.

_For what?_

_For not telling you before. You never need to ask._

It would doubtless seem hypocritical to say the same thing now in return, and that was entirely his own fault. Even though he wanted to.

“My darling,” he said instead, stroking Crowley’s cheek. “Remember when you told me how the stars are always playing catch-up to us? You said, what we see now is like an old photograph, a postcard of how they once were. What you meant, I think, is that they’ll always be behind.” He let his thumb trace along the crease that joined Crowley’s nose and mouth, along his lower lip, the point of his chin. “I don’t want to be behind you, Crowley, and honestly I’m not, I haven’t been, for a very long time. And I will spend every moment of every day proving it, until you never have to doubt me again.”

Crowley took in a long, shaky breath, and let it out slowly.

“Angel,” he said. “Stop it. I mean it this time. This whole self-flagellation thing? That’s Heaven talking. Sweetheart, if we’re free, then let’s be free.”

 _Sweetheart._ Aziraphale’s heart clenched. “You haven’t called me that in a long time. No, I like it,” he hurried to add.

“See?” Crowley said, smiling properly for the first time, even if it was a little tremulous. “‘S the little things. Don’t need grand gestures.”

Aziraphale privately thought a grand gesture or two wouldn’t go amiss, but left it alone for now.

“Can I show you something?” Crowley asked, glancing up at the sky in a way that Aziraphale understood to be a change in subject. And yes, perhaps they could both do with a little breather.

“Please.”

Crowley rolled onto his back and Aziraphale followed until he was snuggled up close with his arm across Crowley’s middle, fingers entwined with Crowley’s over his stomach, and Crowley’s other arm secure around his shoulders.

“Ready?” Crowley asked, a certain tone in his voice that warned Aziraphale to brace himself. Then Crowley clicked his fingers and the sky wheeled crazily. Stars streaked by like comets, as though he had just transported them at great speed through space. But no, the roof of Crowley’s building was still firm beneath their shoulders.

“What--?” Aziraphale tried, blinking his dazzled eyes. Then everything stilled again, and Aziraphale was able to resolve what was in front of him. “Oh, how beautiful!”

If Crowley had given him time to guess (which he hadn’t), Aziraphale might’ve assumed he’d pick something spectacular -- another supernova, or Alpha Centauri, perhaps. Instead, what he saw in the sky above them now had a gentler, more delicate beauty. A vast nebula filled the sky, exquisitely coloured in reds and oranges, greens and blues. It was full of billows and strange, shrine-like columns, and shot through from edge-to-edge with twinkling, diamond-bright stars.

“I helped make this one,” Crowley said quietly. “Wasn’t much of an angel, but I enjoyed the work.”

“You should be proud,” Aziraphale said. “It’s incredible, my dear. Tell me about it?”

“It’s a stellar nursery, a place where new stars are born. D’you remember what I told you that time, about how stars live and die?”

“How could I forget?”

“Yeah? As I recall you fell asleep before I’d finished.”

“You have a talent for relaxing me.”

Aziraphale glanced up just in time to catch Crowley’s bitten lip, felt the jump in his heartbeat, and he had a flash of insight about how their lives could be now. Soft kisses and softer smiles, tender touches, passion and laughter, and gently flustering Crowley to the point of distraction. Good Lord, Aziraphale was looking forward to that.

“Right. Well,” Crowley said, shifting a little, caressing Aziraphale’s fingers restlessly. “After the fusion’s stopped and the star’s gone cold, or exploded or whatever it’s going to do, the molecules that’re left over eventually form a nebula. Over time, gravity does its work again, and the densest bits of the cloud pull in more and more matter, until they’re dense enough to collapse into a protostar. At critical density, fusion starts all over again.”

“Bob’s your uncle.”

“Bob’s your…” Crowley shook his head. “Never mind. Point is, a star died, and a new star was born. It’s different to what came before, more complex in its make-up maybe, but just as… just as precious.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley reached up to trace some unfathomable pattern through the heart of the nebula, his hand in silhouette against the glittering view.

“Something has to end for something new to be created, whether it’s life itself, or…”

“Or a life _together_ ,” Aziraphale said, understanding.

Crowley nodded. “’S a fundamental law of the universe, angel, and the only one who gets to break it is--” he gestured upwards, somehow managing to suggest something beyond the stars.

It was… Aziraphale understood what Crowley was saying, and it was a lot to take in. He was full to the brim with it, in danger of bursting at the seams, and he clung to Crowley for all he was worth.

“Hey,” Crowley said, one warm, gentle hand coming up to cup Aziraphale jaw, tilt his chin up to meet Crowley’s steady gaze. “No. Listen, angel. Endings don’t have to be a bad thing. I should know.”

“I’m not crying from sadness,” Aziraphale croaked.

“You soft, silly bastard,” Crowley said fondly, wiping away Aziraphale’s tears. “I can’t believe I’ve been in love with you for literal millennia.”

Aziraphale’s insides lit up like a new star at those words, love pouring from his skin. Crowley flushed a little under the onslaught, and overhead, in the nebula, a new binary star flared to life.

When they kissed again, this time, Aziraphale saw stars.

**Author's Note:**

> [Fic master-post on tumblr](https://themoonmothwrites.tumblr.com/post/190667508073/title-starstuff-author-themoonmothwrites)   
>  [Art master-post on tumblr](https://cassieoh.tumblr.com/post/190667289464/starstuff-written-by-themoonmothwrites)
> 
> Comments and reblogs give us life :)
> 
> Additional Links:
> 
> [Cassie's etsy shop](https://www.etsy.com/shop/ZizArtsStudio), where you can purchase the art from this fic, see her other works, and commission her.
> 
> Lurlur's Spud Omens [homage to the chapter 1 art](https://luritto.tumblr.com/post/190608476706/cassieoh-once-clean-his-robe-remained) (you need this in your life).


End file.
